


Riverside Park

by morganfir



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: 1900s, Anti-Hero Gold, Dark, Eventual Smut, F/M, Gilded Age, Gothic Romance, Historical References, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Murder, New York City, Revenge, triggering material has warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-10 22:04:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 58,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7862881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganfir/pseuds/morganfir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the death of her robber-baron father, Belle becomes one of the richest heiresses in New York City. Blinded by revenge, the ruthless Mr. Gold is determined to do anything to wed her—including leaving a trail of bodies behind in his wake.</p><p>Nominated for Best Historical AU in 2017 T.E.A's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Poisoned Gin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** this chapter has implied/referenced emotional incest.
> 
> **The Implied/Reference Sexual Assault warning is for a reference of dubious-consented sex in Chapter 6.**

~*~

Her bedroom was practically infantile. The ditzy wallpaper lining the room was more suitable for a nursery than a room belonging to a nineteen-year-old. Gold listened the stack of _Elsie Dinsmore_ books rattle upon her nightstand with each hard thrust. The maid cried out with an annoying shrill, but his imagination triumphed over reality. 

“Belle!” He grunted under his breath as he pushed inside her for the last time. 

After he came, Gold released his tight fingers upon the maid’s hips and collapsed on the bed. Sated, he inhaled through his nose and smelled the sweet perfume in the pillow. When she slept tonight, he hoped that he left a part of himself behind for her. 

“What does she like to eat?” He asked, staring up at the new electric light fixture that burned bright white and unwavering, unlike the flickering gaslights in his French flat. 

“Fancy. Chantilly soup, roasted mutton, the like,” the maid said in her thick Irish accent. She pressed her naked, sweaty body against his side. He remained still and let her—for now. 

“And breakfast?” He asked, drawing up his hand and combing it through her curly hair.

“Scones with raspberry jam,” the maid answered as she began running her fingertips in circles at his breast.

A pause. “Does she have any sweethearts?”

“Some starving artist down in the Tenderloin.”

Gold laughed, a true and hardy laugh. “How did such a thing as that come about?” 

“Met him at the museum, she’s been smitten with him for weeks.” She leaned her chin on his chest, looking to his eyes as if she found love there. What a fool, this Irish Bridget was. “They’ve been exchanging letters.”

He fisted a handful of hair. “Is he handsome?”

“More handsome than you’d ever be, cripple."

Bearing his teeth, he yanked at her hair until he hearing her hiss in pain. “You call me that again and I’ll send you packing back to County Cork.”

The maid whimpered before nodding her head in agreement. He let go of her, throwing her down on the mattress.

“I’m from Belfast," she argued, but he didn't care, for he was called worse for being a catholic. 

Convinced he felt the judgmental stare of her porcelain dolls lining the window seat, Gold sat up from the bed and began to dress. Grabbing his starched collar from the foot of the bed, he spotted a silly smile plastered on the maid’s face. She watched him, running her hand up and down her naked body as she laid in her mistress's bed. Gold wondered if she would still be smiling like a fool if she knew what he had planned for her mistress and not her. 

When he was fully dressed, he grabbed his cane and leisurely circled the room. In the corner was a vanity table, the marble slab littered with imported perfumes, exotic powders, and fancy cold creams. Plucking a bottle, he raised it to his nose and inhaled. For weeks, he wondered what perfume she wore, and now he knew. Yardley’s Lavender.

“Will I see you at the nickelodeon?” The maid asked reached over to fetch her stockings that had discarded over the foot of her bed.

“No,” Gold said, not even glancing in her direction as he walked out the bedroom.

Descended the stairs, he checked his pocket watch. They had finished just in time. He hadn’t come this far just to have his great scheme spoiled by getting caught fucking a noxious chambermaid

Gold entered the front parlor, a grand wood paneled room with a marble fireplace and crowded with lurid antiques from the continent. That was the thing with these nouveau-riche tycoons, they filled their houses with gaudy antiques to show off their immense wealth. They were so desperate to be apart of Astor's four-hundred, to be accepted by New York's elite, that they weren't even above selling their daughters off for peerages. 

Before he was interrupted by any of the number of servants bustling around the thirty-two room mansion, he rushed over to the liquor cabinet and pulled out the crystal decanter filled with fine gin. He produced a small, glass vial from his pocket, and without hesitating, emptied the vial into the decanter.

He returned it to the cabinet, adjusting it carefully to look as if it had never been touched.

Walking towards the fireplace, an ache flamed in his knee from his previous exertion. Leaning against his cane, he lifted his eyes to study the painting hanging over the mantel. Even John Singer Sargent couldn’t paint Maurice French in a good light. He was a stout man, standing with his starched collar digging into his fat neck and tailored ditto suit buckling at the buttons. The real weakness of the painting was that he marred his daughter’s shoulder with his plump, red hand. One day, he’d return the painting to Sargent and commission him to paint the fool out. He couldn't dare throw it out, not with Sargent's fine skill of capturing Miss French's exalted beauty.

When he settled in a seat beside the fire, the noxious maid entered the parlor. She fluttered about the room, dusting trinkets and winding clock gears. Gold ignored her, even though moments ago he was fucking her from behind. When she was done, or grew bored that she could stroke his false desires again, he heard the sound of Maurice’s carriage pull into the drive.

A few minutes later, the parlor door opened.

“Ah, Gold!” Maurice exclaimed in cheer as entered the room. His face had lost the jovial blush he sported most of their working relationship. Instead, his skin was ashen white with deep shadows hanging under his bloodshot eyes.

Gold rose from the chair, his heart pounding with anticipation when he glanced behind Maurice’s shoulder. An angel dressed in blue glided into the room with a welcoming smile on her lovely face. Unlike her father, his daughter sported a healthy glow with cheeks blushing with sublime youth. She was pure, uncorrupted by the harsh world from years of living in her gilded cage. 

“Belle, the gin,” Maurice ordered as he propped down in the chair by the fire.

“Daddy…” Belle gave him a disapproving look.

Maurice scoffed, leaning toward Gold with a humorous smile on his face. “Belle and her Temperance Union would bash all the liquor bottles in New York City if they had their way.”

“They believe in much more than just temperance,” Belle argued, annoyed that she was spoken about if she wasn’t in the room.

“I told you, that group is no place for a girl, filled with all those suffragettes and muckrakers.” Maurice ordered in a stern, paternal voice.

Lowing back down in his chair, Gold watched as a defeated Belle turned to the liquor cabinet and poured gin into two crystal-cut tumblers.

He admired her figure, her small corseted waist and the slim ankle he spotted under her shortened skirts. Even in her garish dress befitting a girl half her age, she still looked like a breathtaking woman.

Belle almost glided across the room, holding out a glass of poisoned gin for her father.

“Thank you, my darling girl,” Maurice thanked, his fingers stroked down her forearm before taking the glass in her hand. Gold eyes narrowed, examining the curious stare Maurice lavished on Belle. It was a look no man should have for his daughter.

“Did you enjoy the exhibit, Miss French?” Gold wondered, taking the glass of gin. He nursed it, holding it in his lap with no desire to drink it.

“Yes, very much,” she said with a brilliant smile, pausing to stand at his side.

“Humph!” Maurice said, wincing as he adjusted himself in his chair. “Pictures of slums and muddy squares, that’s suppose to be art?”

“The Ashcan school believes in painting to be another form of journalism,” Belle insisted, glancing at her father, but remained at his side almost like a shield. “It’s supposed to be thought provoking.”

“Give me a Hudson River School any day,” Maurice said, glancing at Gold before he laughed. “Isn’t that right, ol’ chap?”

Gold lifted his untouched gin, trying not to snarl at the annoying nickname Maurice had suffered upon him, and toasted him in agreement. Just as he expected, the man took a sip of the tainted spirits. It took everything in his might not to sit smugly in his chair as Maurice added another dose of hemlock to his already ravaged system.

“Why don’t you leave us to talk business, darling girl?” Maurice said, holding his hand to his belly. “I’ll come see you before bed.”

Belle obediently nodded, slipping out of the room as silently as a mouse. Gold watched her leave, admiring the sound of her skirts rustling as she left. 

“I’m glad you came,” Maurice said, the jollity disappearing from his voice. He suddenly looked tired, and he should with the amount of poison running through his body. “I’m afraid I won’t live to see Christmas.”

Gold’s father was a milksop who preferred loosing his money on dice than feeding his starving wife and lice-ridden son. However, he’d learned a thing or two from the vile man, like keeping a straight face while holding his winning hand close to his chest.

“Don’t say that,” Gold said, placing the gin down on the table beside him. “You’re as fit as a horse.”

Maurice chuckled, but it was forced. “I need to prepare in case…” he paused, holding his hand to his stomach as he braced a pain. “To make sure Belle is taken care of,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

Gold’s face softened at the sound of her name. “Of course,” he insisted, leaning over to rest his hand on his clammy palm. “Belle’s legal matters shall be my firm’s top priority.”

Maurice stared at him with relief as he patted his hand with affectionate. “Thank you,” he told him.

Withdrawing his hand, Gold leaned back in his and gave him a wink. “I’ll draw up a will first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Belle shall have everything,” Maurice insisted, gesturing with his hand towards his house. “The Riverside mansion and the house in Poughkeepsie, along with my share in the mills, all the stock and bonds, everything."

Gold feigned an uneasy look on his face as he nosily shifted in his seat, exaggerating his movements for the slowwitted Maurice to notice. 

“What?” Maurice questioned, growing concerned. 

“It does make her quite the eligible heiress,” Gold concluded, propping his elbow on the arm and running his fingertip around the rim of his glass. “There will be a lot of men asking for her hand in the hopes of obtaining her fortune.”

Maurice looked horrified at the idea. “She’s only a girl! She has no time for boys, or marriage for that matter!”

“It won’t stop them, it might actually encourage them,” he said, pausing as his fingers stilled on the glass rim. “People have been whispering about an amateur artist shopping for a ring for Miss French." 

“That bastard!” Maurice exclaimed, slamming his clenched fist on the arm of his chair. “The cad has been sending Belle inappropriate letters for weeks!” 

The idea of Belle having a suitor sickened him more the poison.

“The idea that rake…” he paused, shaking his head vehemently as his face turned green, “that brute corrupting my little girl. She’s not keen enough to resist a man’s lewd advances. No, it must never happen.”

Gold tried not to smile as he listened to Maurice’s words of repulsion. If only he knew the man sitting beside him had many lewd and pleasurable things planned for Belle’s wedding night.

“She must be protected,” Gold urged, leaning in as if they made a desperate move to save her from the vice of the men. “Guarded like the treasure she is.”

“Yes,” he said, ardently agreeing. “But what shall I do?”

“Might I suggest placing her inheritance in a conservatorship? Someone who can oversee her legal and financial decisions. It would help ward off these downtown savages,” Gold expounded, carefully picking words he knew set Maurice’s mind aflame with worry. 

“Yes,” Maurice agreed, nodding his head. His eyes darted around the room before he fixed him with a confident stare. “You must be her conservator!”

“Me?” Gold acted shocked, his mouth open agape as he glanced around the room. “Certainly not.”

“It must be you,” Maurice insisted as he leaned forward in his seat, desperate for him to agree. “You’re the only one I trust to take care of her. You will, won’t you, ol' chap?”

Gold didn’t need to be asked twice. “Of course.” 

Relieved, Maurice leaned back into his chair and rubbed at his aching stomach. “She is a delicate flower, my Belle,” he began, leaning his head back into chair as he explained how to care for her if she was a potted plant instead of a woman. “The outside world confuses the poor girl. She is more mild and good-tempered when she remains inside and occupied by proper, delicate hobbies.”

If only knew the hobbies Belle would undertake after his timely passing. Certainly, she’ll be too busy with enjoying his cock to occupy her time with playing with dolls and reading children's books. The thought of it stirred his desires, and he shifted in his seat to hide the growing evidence of his excitement.

“Belle will want for nothing,” he said, a true promise.

Taking his leave, Gold rose from the chair and gestured to the half-full tumbler in Maurice's hand. “Drink up, it will ease your pain,” he encouraged with as much sympathy as he could muster.

“I am so grateful to have a friend such as you,” Maurice said, nodding in agreement as he rose the glass to his lips. 

“Rest now, Miss French will be well taken," he swore, patting him on the shoulder as he passed him by. A lecherous smile grew on his face, pleased as he heard Maurice gulped down the rest of the spirits. "I'll show myself out."

The maid was at the entry, holding his bowler hat close to her chest, and shot a suggestive look as he yanked it from her tight grip.

“Mr. Gold,” a soft voice called out for him.

Snapping around, he saw Belle standing above the last few steps of the grand staircase. A Tiffany stained-glass window decorated the immediate landing, and even the superior craftsmanship of gem-like glass couldn’t compare to the holy touch of God etched into Belle’s features. She was an angel, rising above the darkness and shining a beacon in his dark heart. 

“Thank you for visiting,” Belle said, folding her hands in front of her. “His spirits always seem lifted after your company.”

Gold tilted his head forward while holding the bowler cap to his chest. “You’re very welcome, Miss French.”

Belle opened her mouth to speak but stopped when she warily spotted the maid by the door. She held her breath and nervously glancing down at her feet.

“You will always find me your most loyal confidant,” Gold assured her, wishing that she would run to him to share the secrets of her soul. He would horde them like precious gold, never to be shared or looked upon by strangers. He would be her fortress, if she wished it.

Belle sunk her hand deep in her pocket and pulled out a letter. Mr. Gold walked to the bottom step, holding his hand to receive it.

“Would you see that this gets mailed?” She asked in a conspiring whisper.

“Why can you not send it yourself?” Gold inquired with mild curiosity.

Belle glanced over his shoulder and fixed the maid with a cautious glance. “My letters don’t always make the post.”

Gold didn’t need her to explain. Surely, Maurice had tried to put a stop to this dalliance between his princess and the rake. He promptly took the letter, sliding it into his pocket before the maid noticed. “Say no more,” he assured her, giving her a quick wink. It shall be their little secret. 

“Thank you,” she said as she shared a look of sincere relief and gratefulness. It was hard not to answer her angelic look with a kiss. He knew she was the reason he fought through the muck and filth of his hard and desperate life. It was fate that she would be his last and final mark. 

Gold nodded before donning his bowler hat and turned on his heel of his capped-toed shoes to leave. The maid gave him one last suggestive look before he exited the Riverside mansion. 

When he heard the click of the heavy door behind him, he stopped on the stoop to pull the letter from his pocket. Flipping it over in his hands, he spotted the recipient's name. Gaston Durand. Belle had drawn a little heart between his first and last name. How adorable, Gold dryly thought.

Uncaring about privacy or propriety, he forced open the seal with his thumb and slipped out the letter. His eyes raked over her perfect spencerian penmanship, hoping one day that her hand might craft a love letter to him. 

_My dearest love,_

_My heart soars from the sight of you, for it has been too long since our last meeting. It pains me that I cannot be in the glory of your company, to hug and kiss you as lovers do._ _Father is growing suspicious. I haven’t been out of the house all week. Zelena steals my letters, and I am certain he has thrown out yours. We must keep vigilant, for I will not give up on our love so easily! I live with the hope that one day we will live in our house as husband and wife, and all I have will be yours._

_Your beloved,  
_ _Belle_

Gold ripped the letter in tiny pieces and sent them scattering into the autumn breeze. Despite having no desire to deliver her letter, he was unconcerned about her silly infatuation. Let the girl dream that this artist, this Gaston Durand, was her forbidden love and knight in shining armor. In the end, it would not matter when Maurice died and it was his shoulder she was crying on. He would only be a fleeting memory, while he remained to help lessen the burden of her grief and share the glittering wonders of New York. 

Soon, everything Maurice had would be his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is influenced by all my favorites. _Crimson Peak, Gaslight, Dragonwyck, The Heiress_ and other delicious gothic romances. I'm basing this off of 1890s-1910ish New York City, but I'm also taking creative license with plots/accuracy/and speech. 
> 
> Trust me, don't ever read Elsie Dinsmore (or Dinsbore, lol). Beyond the boring plot and perpetuating the Lost Cause Myth, it pushes the idea that girls have to perfect in every way to receive love and acceptance. Besides that, the relationship between Elsie and her father is beyond creepy. So, I thought it would be a strange parallel to the strange, emotional incestuous relationship Maurice forces on his daughter.
> 
> I'd like to think Belle might be involved in the Temperance Movement. I know that's quite ridiculous today, but the the Women's Christian Temperance Union was one of the most popular organizations for women in that era. And besides focusing on temperance, they supported immigration, women's suffrage, and labor reforms. A lot first-wave feminists were apart of the WCTU. 
> 
> Belle's house is based on the Schinasi House. It was completed in 1909 at the northeast corner of West 107th Street and Riverside Drive. It's one of the few surviving gilded age mansions left in NYC.
> 
> It's unbeta'd so expect some mistakes. 
> 
> find me at <http://morganfir.tumblr.com/>


	2. Female Hysteria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:** implied emotional incest

It was two decades in the making. 

Gold turned up his nose at the reeking odor of vomit and death that hung in the stale air. Maurice laid in his palatial bedchamber, the blinds closed and the electric lights dimmed. The French’s family physician had given Belle a tincture of laudanum for her nerves when she'd grown perturbed. She was sleeping in her rooms across the hall, unawares that Gold was slinking around Maurice’s deathbed like a viper.

Maurice groaned, struggling to see him in the dim light. “Thank you for coming to see me in my final hours.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Gold said, drinking in the delicious sight of him. “I’ve dreamt of this day for a very long time.”

Maurice blinked, confused at Gold’s strange change in demeanor. He left his mask at the door, letting Maurice gaze upon the man that spent years plotting and scheming his revenge.

“When I first came to this country, I thought I’d come to the land of milk and honey. A place where a poor Scot like me could make a decent living, except I was met with signs telling me ‘no immigrant need not apply.’”

His dreams of America were crushed as soon as he was shoved into the steerage of a cholera-ridden ship. When he disembarked at Ellis Island, he spent a month on Swinburne Island in quarantine. That was the only the prelude to the months of navigating the dirty, corrupt jungle of New York City.

“Then I hear that there's this wool mill hiring. Oh, I thought this was a grand thing. I’d work hard and I’ll rise to the top. I’ll buy a house and a marry a bonny lass,” he paused, remembering his sweet dreams of foolishness before continuing, “have children. _A proper family_.”

Before Maurice could utter a word, Gold slipped beside him on the bed. The mattress dipped from his weight as he leaned over and placed his hands on either side of Maurice's head. He loomed over the dying man with dominance he craved so long for.

“I worked in one of your mills, Maurice. I suffered sixteen hour days, seven days a week, and was paid less than a donkey,” he spoke with contempt. He remembered those long, hard days that broke his spirit and planted thoughts of despair and self-doubt. “All the while you sat in your throne like jolly King Henry, getting rich and fat off of your child labor and wage slaves.”

Maurice’s terrified eyes examined Gold’s twisted face, searching for his old friend, but he couldn’t find what never existed.

“I was working on one of your carders when it malfunctioned. It mangled my leg, almost severed it from the knee, but all you cared about was your bloody machine! Remember me?”

The agonizing tragedy was vividly sealed in Gold’s memory, but Maurice looked puzzled.

“No?” Gold inquired with a sneer. “You called me filthy pipe-blower while you showered me with the end of your cane.”

Maurice flinched as Gold’s words sparked recognition in his fevered mind.

“You don’t know the unspeakable things I had to do to survive,” he told him, his voice filled with pain and regret. “You consider yourself a good, charitable man but you couldn’t even show the slightest bit of mercy to a desperate pauper!”

With a theatric flutter of his hand, Gold pulled out Maurice's will from his breast pocket. It ensured Gold as conservator to Belle’s immense fortune upon his imminent death. To outsiders, she was the orphaned ward of his oldest, dearest friend. To him, it was a long wished dream come to sweet fruition. He now possessed his two most precious things—his money and his daughter.

“I swore that I’d see you fall from your lofty heights,” he said, flashing the notarized will with a triumphant grin.

Maurice grunted as he raised his heavy arm to snatch it, his movements were slowed by fever, but Gold quickly yanked it from his reach.

“I have to admit, Miss French was an afterthought. I had no idea you had a daughter,” Gold confessed, smiling at the sweet memory of meeting Belle for the first time. “But as soon as I saw her, I knew I had to have her.”

“No…” Maurice protested.

Gold leaned back, slipping the legal document back into the safety of his breast pocket.

“I haven’t figure out why you’ve kept her in her girlhood,” he mused aloud, honestly wishing to understand what perversions ran through Maurice's mind. “Why were you so unwilling to let her blossom into a woman?”

Gold lifted his cane and pressed the hilt under Maurice's fat chin. 

“I think you couldn’t stand the idea that your daughter might love _anyone_ more than you. I’ve seen the way you touched her, the way you looked at her.” He pressed harder, watching him squirm as his airway was blocked by the gold-tipped handle. “You wanted her all to yourself, didn’t you? _Ol’ chap_?”

Gold wasn’t known for his vigor, but he imagined it was Lady Justice that granted him strength. He would seek retribution for the twisted crimes he committed against his sweet, underserving daughter. When Maurice began to struggle, tossing and turning to escape his sadism, Gold remained vigilant to carry out the justice he thought—he believed was right and fair.  

With an ache in his knee and a forehead dripping in sweat, he lowered his cane to his side. “You’re her father! She depended on you! And you took advantage of her love!”

Gold pulled the pocket square from his suit, listening as Maurice fell into a coughing fit. 

“I never touched her,” he professed. "I swear it."

“There are other forms of incest,” Gold informed him, wiping the Maurice’s sweat off the hilt of his cane with his handkerchief. “You treated her like a doll, all the while depending on her to fill the gaps that Colette left behind.”

“What are you going to do with her?” Maurice asked, growing terrified because he knew there was nothing he could do to stop him. 

“For once, I’m going to be the hero,” he declared, grinning at the splendid sight of Maurice lying upon his deathbed. “I’m going to rescue her from the shadows of your memory by making her Mrs. Gold.”

Maurice vehemently shook his head as incoherent noises slipped from his throat. Gold leaned in, strands of his fine, greying hair falling over his eyes as he bared his crooked teeth. 

“This filthy bag-piper is going to fuck your darling girl,” he paused, watching as spit and bile began to bubble from Maurice's mouth. “And you know what I think sickens you more? Not the fact that I’ll shove my hard cock into her tight little quim. No, that’s not it. You’re terrified that she’ll like it.” 

Maurice began to convulse, gurgling and choking as his plump hands tore at the fastenings of his pajama shirt. Gold dreamt of this day for years. The image of his death bed kept his belly full and his body warm. He listened a beautiful melody in the strange, sickly noises Maurice composed as his limbs violently spasmed. It was a tune he'd never forget.

Remaining silent, he didn't call for the physician to assist him. Far as he was concerned, Maurice was already dead.

Making a game out of his death, Gold withdrew his pocket watch to follow the time it took for him to die. Just when he opened his watch, Maurice’s limbs went limp and his cloudy eyes rolled up into the back of his head.

"Took you long enough," he coldly remarked, admiring the long anticipated sight of Maurice's corpse. 

Discerning the sound of footsteps behind the door, he quickly snapped his watch closed and dropped it into the narrow pocket of his waistcoat. Gold rose from Maurice's deathbed, shielding himself in his mask by placing a devastated look upon his face. The door slowly opened and Belle slipped inside of the room, expecting her father to be resting. Her pallid, sickly face was an immediate mark of concern. The French's physician, Dr. Whale, wouldn't be staying for very long.

“Daddy?” She weakly muttered, taking a step into the room. She wobbled, bracing against the wall, obviously impaired by the drugs she’d been given.

“Miss French, please, do not look,” Gold insisted as he speedily drew the ties at the bedpost. The canopy dropped, obscuring her father’s corpse from her eyesight. He would spare her the sight. 

Her movements delayed, Belle slowly tore her eyes away from her father’s bed. She turned to him with such desperate hope in her sallow face, as if she expected him to inform her that her father was only sleeping. When she found nothing but commiseration, true and honest from his black heart, is when her beautiful face twisted in unbearable grief.

“No!” She cried as tears fell down her pale cheeks. “He can’t be dead! Daddy!”

She faltered, slipping from the wall as her knees gave way. He rushed to her side, catching her before she fell to the floor. She was as limp as a rag doll, either from the blow of her tragic loss or by the ill-prescribed sedatives. Ignoring the pain in his knee, Gold braced her weight against his side as she wept into the lapel of his blazer. With her lithe body pressed so softly against his side, it was worth the aches it would cause. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said with sincerity. Gold closed his eyes, savoring the lavender perfume saturated in soft hair. “Do not fret, Miss French, I am here,” he told her, lifting his hand to cradle her head like the precious thing she was.

After decades of hard work and dedication, he cherished the well-earned moment with reverence. 

 

~*~

 

Gold bit back a curse as a pain shot through his leg. It was blinding, raw, and nearly made him pass out.

“You really should see a real doctor about this,” a feminine voice suggested.

Opening his eyes, he saw a woman not older than thirty standing over him. She shot him a stern look through the pince-nez glasses that was nestled on the bridge of her bulbous nose. Her frizzy, brown hair was pulled back from her face, styled for practicality rather than fashion. She wore a pressed shirtwaist with a red tie fastened under her starched collar and a gored skirt.

Catching his breath, Gold sat up in his bed and glared at his leg. The right was bowed and inches shorter than the left. It was grotesque, covered in scar tissue and angry with discoloration. Ashamed and frightened by the sight, he stomached the pain to pull down his pant leg. He wouldn’t expose the monstrous deformity more than it was necessary.

“Aren’t you a _real_ doctor?” Gold quipped, shielding himself in his dry humor as he waited for her prognosis.

“I meant a specialist.” She placed her hands on her waist and he gritted his teeth in preparation for her scolding. “Didn’t you receive any medical treatment after the injury?” 

“Where?” Gold questioned. “There weren’t people like Jacob Riis to pull back the veil on _how the other half lives_ back then. Hell, I was just hoping not to get myself killed.”

She looked thoughtful. “They say there was a murder a night, is that true?” 

“Aye,” he nodded, remembering the countless dead men he passed on the street because they city’s morgue couldn’t be bothered with corpses of the poor. “Five Points wasn’t exactly a fairytale ball back then, Dr. Baker.”

With a sigh, she turned to the nightstand and opened her physician's bag. “If you won’t consent to surgery, I’d like you to consider using a wheelchair.”

Gold threw back his head and erupted into laughter.

“I don’t see what’s funny,” Dr. Baker replied, growing sour at his attitude towards his health. “This is about preventing that outcome, not injuring your pride.”

“I prevent requiring a wheelchair by using a wheelchair?” He questioned her, trying desperately not to laugh at the irony of it.

“It’s so you can have a future where you have a choice in the matter,” she argued. 

He grew bitter, knowing that she was correct, but he stubbornly wouldn’t take her advice. If he consented to using a wheelchair, then there wasn’t a place in New York City he could easily go. The world wasn’t made for the handicapped, and he wouldn’t be shut out just when he’d finally found his place.

“I’d consider it,” he quickly mentioned, draping his legs over the edge of the bed. 

As he bent down to reach for his socks suspenders, he thought about Dr. Whale's testimony to Belle's ill health. He thought it was nonsense, but it did convince a judge to grant conservatorship over her fortune.

“What’s your opinion on female hysteria?” 

“Quackery, that’s what that is,” she plainly answered, gathering her tools to drop in her bag.

“You don’t believe it to be a genuine disease?” Gold inquired, tilting his head aside with curiosity.

Dr. Baker removed the glasses from her freckled nose. “When the judge rules against you, and if you find that ruling unjust, you appeal, correct?”

“Of course,” he said, knitting his eyebrows in confusion. “Why wouldn’t I?”

She ignored his question. “You’re determined to prove that you’re right, but become agitated and flustered when he won’t even consider your reasoning,” she assumed with a look of certainty on her plain face. “Does the judge ever tell you to stop being so darn emotional?”

Gold stilled his fingers as pulled the leather strap through the buckle. “You're saying its contrived medicine to undermine women?”

“Men can’t possibly understand why we fight against the roles they designed for us. Why we don’t want to be mothers to an army of their children, or perfectly pure daughters, or compliant wives. So, they explain it away as hysteria. Now you have a medical condition to throw at a woman every time she’s disagreeable, or nervous, or bored, or too sexual, or not sexual enough,” she explained as she removed the stethoscope from around her neck and dropped it into her bag. “You don’t think I’ve ever been told I can’t be a doctor because I’m too emotional for such a profession?’”

“My knee is at your mercy.” Gold glanced down, fastening the edge of his sock to the suspender. “I won’t dare tell you what to do.”

Dr. Baker’s mood turned somber. “Why is it that you ask? Is this for a court case?”

Gold rubbed at the stubble above his lip. “I have an acquaintance being treated for hysteria, though it was at the insistence of her father. He was, shall I say,” he paused, trying to find the right word for such a delicate topic, “not agreeable to her.”

Dr. Baker hummed, staring at him with judgment in her eyes. “Unsettling for your friend, but I doubt you wouldn’t be above using it as an argument in your court.” 

Gold grinned, amused by her keen and quick brain. “It does help when the jury is comprised of men.” 

Dr. Baker rolled her eyes, turning away to pick up her coat from the back of a chair. The world wasn’t fair, but he couldn’t change that. Instead, he used it in his favor to win.

“What is her treatment?” She asked as she fought to lay flat the collar of her coat.

“Drops of laudanum, administered by her family physician.” 

“Well, that would certainly keep her compliant!” Dr. Baker proclaimed in shock.

“Would you be available to meet with her?” 

“And who exactly is this _friend_ of yours?” She questioned with a hint of teasing in her voice. Dr. Baker was smart enough to know that this couldn’t be any ordinary acquaintance to earn his rarely earned concern.

Using his cane, he pushed himself off the bed with a grunt. Dr. Baker stood aside, knowing her assistance would be unwelcome while he struggled. He limped over to the table by the window and picked up the newspaper, holding out the front page for her to read. 

 _TEXTILE MAGNATE M. FRENCH DEAD AT 65_ emblazoned the front page above a picture of Maurice, with a smaller headline below reading _DAUGHTER TO INHERIT FORTUNE._

“The French girl?” Dr. Baker questioned, angrily dropping the newspaper on the table with a thwack. “Why would I treat a family who creates the problems I strive to amend?”   

“Treating her does not make you complicit the mills’ labor abuses,” Gold countered. His face softened, sympathetic to her frustrations, but his thoughts were entirely of Belle’s health. “She needs help that I cannot provide.”

Dr. Baker looked away, clearly torn between her responsibilities as a doctor and her personal crusade to aid New York City’s poor and immigrant population.

“I’m doing you a favor, you know,” he said, plucking the teacup from his abandoned breakfast platter. “I’m offering you a foothold to the most exclusive group of ladies in New York City, and they’re just dying for another charitable cause to champion. Befriend her, show her your capabilities, charm her with your intelligence, and you’ll gain a powerful ally when you become New York Health Inspector.”

“There isn’t any female health inspectors,” she told him, slowly warming up to him again.

“Not yet,” he reminded her with a wink.

She acquiesced with a frustrated sighed. “Fine, I’ll meet with her.”

“Brilliant,” he said before taking a sip of cold coffee. The clocks around his French flat began to chime, a musical ode to the beginning of a wonderful future. “Send your bill to my office, I have a funeral to prepare for.”

 

~*~

  

It was a perfect day for a funeral, chilly without a speck of sunlight. That's all more than Maurice French deserved. As he climbed the stoop to the riverside mansion, he imagined that Belle would likely grow cold, and maybe she'd seek the warmth of his body as they watched her father’s casket enter the family crypt at Woodlawn Cemetery. 

It was hard hiding the smile as he rung the doorbell.

A footman opened the door. He wore a pressed uniform with a black ribbon tied around his arm in a sign of mourning.

Gold was removing his coat when he heard the noisy rustle of taffeta. When he turned around from the entryway, he saw Belle descending the staircase, dressed in a two-piece gown made from ink-black silk trimmed in matching velvet. Her mourning weeds was startling different from the garments of her previous wardrobe. The bodice was smartly tailored to show off her corseted figure and her skirts dusted the floor, unlike her girlish dresses that were hemmed above her ankles.

The most startling change to her appearance was that she had pulled her hair up into an elegant chignon. The little girl that danced to her father’s tune was gone, she was now a woman.

“Miss French,” he began, promptly removing his hat. “I am terribly sorry for your loss. I sent flowers for your father's casket, a wreath of white chrysanthemums.”

“Thank you,” she said, her voice strangely unfriendly. “The papers say I have inherited everything, but you have yet come to me with such news. I find that concerning, wouldn't you?” 

Gold blinked, startled by her question. “Surely, this is not the best of times for such a discussion. You're in mourning.” 

When Belle pressed her lips together, he noticed they were tinted by light rouge. Gold couldn’t even imagine where she’d pick up a cosmetic, let alone have the audacity to wear it during her mourning period. Not that she looked horrible with it, in fact, her lips became even more desirable to kiss. 

“This is the perfect time, Mr. Gold,” she said, her voice not all like the girl he heard a few days ago.

“Then let us go into the parlor to speak in private?” He insisted, gesturing with his hand towards the doorway to his left.

Descending the staircase, Belle lifted the hem of her skirt with one hand while the other glided along the marble balustrade.

Closing the parlor door behind them, he entertained the idea that it probably was the first time she was alone with a man other than her father, unless she shared more than secret letters with that Durand fool.

Belle lowered herself in her father seat, her fingers fiddling with the jet beads strung around her neck. Gold came to her side, ever the obedient servant to his queen. She was in a higher rung of society than even his grimy hands could aspire to reach, and he doubted marriage would ever change that.

“Miss French, I assured your father that I would look after you in the case of his unfortunate passing,” Gold said, gathering as much sympathy as he could muster in his voice. “I am to be the conservator of your estate.”

“Conservator?” Belle questioned, her eyes growing wide. “I can balance my own accounts, Mr. Gold!”

“Your father thought differently.” Gold lowered his eyes, growing awkward, and ran his hands over the rim of his hat. “Because of your…condition.”

When he looked up, he saw Belle’s lips were pressed together in a tight, firm line. He couldn’t tell if she shocked or furious that he would speak her personal health.

“My father,” Belle began, suddenly appearing agitated at the mention of his name, “thought there was a medical reason any time I disagreed with him.”

Instead of understanding that his daughter wanted out of her gilded cage, Maurice sought out quacks to treat diseases she did not have. Gold sat in silence, wondering what other crimes he’d committed against his daughter.

“I assure you,” Belle said, finally braving to glance up at him. “I am not hysterical.”

“I never assumed you were,” Gold told her with sincerity. “There is a woman I’d like you to meet. She’s a doctor.” 

“A woman doctor?” Belle frowned, imagined he was joking, but then her eyes widened in surprise when she realized that he was earnest. “How progressive,” she dryly commented. 

“I’d like you to meet with her, for a second opinion,” he carefully explained. It was one thing to learn about her health, but another thing to intervene. “I think you’d find her agreeable, but if you wish to continue with Dr. Whale—”

“Dr. Whale would treat paper cuts with amputation,” Belle interrupted, her voice dripping with ire. "His medical knowledge hasn't evolved much since the Civil War." 

They both heard the sputtering and roaring of a motorized carriage as it zipped down the street. Belle leaned over the arm of her chair, trying to catch a glance of the strange contraption from the window.

“It’s a new era, Mr. Gold,” Belle appraised, turning back to face him when she failed to spot it from her seat. “I think I would be interested in meeting this female doctor of yours.”

Gold didn't have to force a smile at her answer. For a moment, they sat in a sorrowful silence filled with the sounds of beads clicking as she played with her necklace.

Uncomfortable, he shifted in his seat. “What do you want to do now?”

Belle blinked, mildly shock. “What do you mean?”

It was obvious that it had been a very long time since some asked her what she wanted.

“Would you like to go to college? Vassar is a short ride from your father’s summer home. Or, perhaps you’d like to travel the continent? I heard that is what all the ladies do these days.”

Belle glanced around the room, clearly uncomfortable by his genuine offer.

“Or you could do nothing,” Gold said with an apathetic shrug. It matter not how she wished to fill her free time. If she wanted to learn about art in the classroom, let her get her degree. If she wished to go to Europe to take in the sights, than he wouldn’t stop her. But he might try to find a way to escort her, married or not.

“You let me have access to my father’s money?” Belle asked, knitting her eyebrows in disbelief. She probably had never been given more than a few dollars at a time, now she had her father’s entire fortune.

Gold slipped his hand inside of his blazer and withdrew a folded slip. “I've arranged a personal checking account at the Fifth Avenue Bank, where thirty dollars will be deposited weekly to be spent at your discretion.”

Belle looked at him with curiosity as he took the slip from his outreached hand. “Thirty dollars?” She asked, mildly shocked. “To spend as I please?”

“Of course.” Gold laughed, amused at her surprise. “Spend it all on feathered hats, or not at all. It’s yours.”

It was a key to her financial independence, something she’d been denied by her father, and she held the slip against her chest like a treasure.

“However, I hope that you will allow me to council you before you make any substantial purchases.”

Gold forced himself to hold his tongue when he saw her turn her head away, irritated at his patronizing. Belle was not a spendthrift, but she’d never been handed a fortune before. 

“But I will not deprive you of what is rightfully yours,” he quickly added.

Belle seemed eased by his words and relaxed in her seat, letting go of her necklace as she stilled her fidgety digits.

“I’d like to…” She bit her lip as she gathered the courage to speak her desires. “I’d like to go to the exhibits whenever I please, to accept invitations and social calls, and to go to my meetings at the Temperance Union.”

“That sounds lovely,” Gold admitted, slightly forlorn at her answer. Those were such ordinary requests, but she spoke of them with candid hopefulness. He would kill Maurice a second time for denying her a normal life, but instead, he sought to assist her dreams. “Perhaps you’d like to sell the mansion and pick a residence on fifth-avenue, to be closer to society and the shops?”

“I like it here, it’s quiet,” Belle admitted as she glanced around the opulent room. “Father always said Riverside was a good investment, but I admit I’m glad that it remained the ‘wrong’ side of Central Park.”

Belle’s family was considered new money, and was spurred by society matrons like the esteemed Mrs. Astor. The only way would be through marriage, and most daughters found it across the pond. He couldn't entertain the vision of her saddled to a broke aristocrat, wasting away in some crumbling estate in the English countryside.

“I believe we must part, or we will be late for the funeral train,” Gold told her, rising from his seat and offering his hand for her to take.

Numb by loss, Belle looked as like an automaton as she rose out her father’s lounge chair. 

Gold was riddled with holes. Holes left by nails that were hammered into the grain of his being by a cruel, unrelenting life. But when Belle's hand curled around the crook of her arm, it felt like those holes were suddenly filled and mended. Her touch was medicine he spent most of his life searching for.

Feeling twice the man he felt this morning, he escorted his love to her father’s funeral.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow....just wow. I'm so amazed by all the comments and kudos. Thank you so much.
> 
> **Historical Notes**
> 
> Usually the signs read "Irish need not apply," so consider the change creative license. Laudanum is basically opium, available at any pharmacy for home use. Mourning attire was also known as weeds, from the old english word "waed" meaning garment. 
> 
> Dr. Baker is based off of [Sara Josephine Baker](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sara_Josephine_Baker), a notable doctor that worked in public service. She's best known for her relentless investigation into Mary Mallon, aka Typhoid Mary, while she was a NYC Health Inspector. Before she passed her civil service exam, she worked as a private physician in New York, so here she is. 
> 
> Female Hysteria was a thing, so if Dr. Baker's tirade was modern, that was me just getting pissed after all my research on it. My favorite description of the "disease" is one written by Dr. Kellogg (yes, that Kellogg) and states hysteria "almost always occurs in females, and most frequently between the ages of 15 to 25. The most common causes are sexual excesses, novel-reading, perverted habits of thought, and idleness. It occurs most frequently among young ladies who have been reared in luxury and have never learned self-control, but who have had every whim and face gratified until self-gratification has come to be their greatest aim in life." [source](https://books.google.com/books?id=uHMSYPCKPUcC&dq=medicine%20home&pg=PA1107#v=onepage&q&f=false)
> 
> The King's Handbook of NYC, c. 1892, has a three pages dedicated to the Woodlawn Cemetery and describes it "as the fashionable burial-place for New York millionaire families. Trains run every half-hour during the day, and there are also special funeral trains." [source](https://archive.org/stream/kingshandbookof00king#page/472/mode/2up)
> 
> The [Fifth Avenue Bank](http://norman.hrc.utexas.edu/nyjadc/ItemDetails.cfm?id=388) was located in row of high-end shops known as the "Ladies Mile." So they hired female tellers to service the women coming in to withdrawal money before they went shopping. I just thought that was a cool fact. *shrug*
> 
> 1895's $30 is today's $1200(ish)
> 
> Find me here: <http://morganfir.tumblr.com/>


	3. The Czar of the Tenderloin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** graphic descriptions of drug abuse.

The funeral with a Protestant affair, dull and dry. Afterwards, a sea of widows and spinsters, with those ridiculous blue ribbons of temperance pinned on their black bodices, descended upon the Riverside Park estate. Enduring their somber company for several hours, Gold was dying for a drink.

Gold slipped inside the parlor and helped himself to an unopened bottle of aged scotch. In the darkness of the room, he saluted the old man hanging over the fireplace.

“Perhaps I’ll keep you around,” he said, smiling as he studied the delicate strokes of oil paint that made his red face all too lifelike. “Make you watch, isn’t that what you always wanted? Keep her cage up, to be admired like the rest of your treasures?”

Gold took a sip of his scotch, welcoming the burn as the spirits slipped down his throat. He stilled when he heard the door open. Belle entered and pulled a young man behind her. He was strapping, and more annoying, half his age. Deadly handsome, with his clear skin, a strong jaw, straight teeth, dazzling brown eyes, and held the vigor of blessed youth. Gold never considered himself a handsome man, but he compensated that error in nature with impeccable manners, brilliant speech, dashing suits, and his cunning intelligence. All the things this boy lacked.

Neither of them noticed that he lurked in the shadows. 

“Belle, my love!” He proclaimed like a sap. 

Gold rolled his eyes, imagining him on the stage rather than in the presence of his lover. When he wrapped his muscular arms around her waist, pulling him against his chest, Gold gripped his tumbler tighter. So, this must be the starving artist.

“I’ve missed you so,” Belle cried, placing her hands on his chest as she gazed up at him with such hope. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

Gaston cupped her cheek with his massive hand. “Of course I would,” he told her before he leaned in to kiss her. It took everything not to throw the tumbler at his giant head. He pulled back, holding her shoulders with his hands and squeezing her with encouragement. “Now is the time, Belle! We can get married like we always wished!”

The sap held no threat to Belle’s fortune. It was secure, tied up in contracts and non-liquid assets, with every cent requiring by his signature before it was spent. However, he couldn’t let this clandestine liaison to continue. She was an proper heiress and he an untrustworthy rake.

Concealed by the shadows of the room, he almost laughed after calling the kettle black. He had schemed and plotted to win the French fortune, but Belle was different. He wanted her because he loved her—in his own twisted way.

Before Belle could answer, Gold coughed under his breath. Belle nearly fell when she hurried pushed herself from Gaston's embrace. She held a hand over her lips, hiding the rouge smudged by their kiss. She appeared embarrassed at such an intimidate moment being observed under his conservative eyes. Gaston, on the other hand, lifted his spine and eyed him with scrutiny. Gold always believed that like could recognize like and saw it in his eyes, the dishonor and cowardice. Perhaps Gaston could recognize his ruthless determination? His drive to secure and protect what was his? 

“I apologize,” Gold quickly said before chuckling from awkwardness. “I just came for a drink.” He swiftly lifted the glass of scotch as proof. “I hope you don’t think badly of me, with your oath to temperance and all. It’s just been a difficult day.”

Belle shook her head, smiling kindly at him. “Of course not.” 

Unable to pass up the opportunity, Gold crossed the distance with outreach his hand towards Gaston. “Gold. I’m am...well I was Mr. French’s attorney.”

Gaston stared at his hand before he took it to shake. The two gripped each other’s hand in a fight for dominance. 

“Gaston Durand.”

Gaston removed his hand, wiping it against his pant leg. 

“What is it that you do, Mr. Durand?” Gold inquired, ignoring his rudeness.

“Gaston is a talented artist,” Belle answered for him. Looking up at him with admiration, her eyes were immediately riveted by the sight of his wet mouth as he raked the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip. The girl was practically swooning. The bastard was good; he’d give him that. But this complication needed to be remedied, and quickly. 

“I will call on you tomorrow,” Gaston stiffly told her. Spinning on his heel, he glanced one last time at Gold before leaving the parlor.

“Seems like a lovely fellow,” Gold shared before raising his glass to his lips.

“Really?” Belle questioned, utterly surprised at his approval. She looked down as she twisted the soiled handkerchief in her hands. “Father did not care for him. Actually, he didn't care for most things I enjoyed." 

Belle had remained eerily calm for such a tragic day. Perhaps she’d been given sedatives for her female hysteria; maybe the reality of her new life hadn’t sunk in yet. Either way, he needed to be the one she turned to, not this Gaston Durand. 

“Belle, would you permit me to call on you?” He inquired, growing concerned.

“Of course,” Belle said. “You were father's dearest friend, you'll always be welcomed at Riverside Park." 

And soon, he would be her dearest friend.

"I have to go,” he said, sliding the glass of half-empty scotch onto the nearest table. “Unfortunately, contracts do not write themselves, even in sad times such as these.”

Gold took his leave, following the heavy scent of cologne as he exited the mansion. He stopped at the top of the stoop, spotting Gaston lighting a badly rolled cigar in the light of the nearest lamppost. Buttoning his coat, Gold patiently waited until Gaston turned to walk towards the end of the block. Gold followed him, always keeping a building's difference between them. He stopped at the end of the block and waiting for a trolley car to roll on by. Determined to see an end to his affair, Gold pulled out a nickel from his pocket and jumped on the cramped car. 

The maid was right; the boy lived in Tenderloin, or the long strip of Broadway between 23rd and 42nd street. He wouldn’t blame a man for where he lived, the spent most of his life under seedy bridges and cramped rooms than he did in fine boudoirs and gentlemen’s clubs. 

Gold followed him past the Haymarket Dance Hall, watching from across the street as he walked into a shanty boarding house. All the pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

 

~*~

 

With a swift stroke of his hand, Gold signed his last signature for the day. His clerk came rushing into his office with a small package wrapped in paper held in his scar-covered hands.

“Here you go, Mr. Gold,” David said, slipping the box that wasn’t more than the size of a brick onto his desk. 

When he rose from his desk, Gold immediately saw the worry etched on his assistant’s face. “What is it?”

David’s eyes darted to his knee. “Are you in pain, sir?”

Gold was flattered by his clerk’s concern. “Just an ache at night, don’t fret.”

David was charming as he was handsome, thought not well versed in being a contract law or genteel conversation. Years ago, he found him bare-knuckled boxing in the Bowery. Gold understood that he was no man of considerable strength, and he’d rather not muddy his hands when he could get a Bowery boy to do it for him. Seizing the opportunity, Gold offered him a position in his firm in exchange for his assistance in his personal affairs. David might have taken a few blows to the head, but he was far from foolish and took his offer.

“I need you arrange some things for me,” Gold informed him as opened a drawer and fished out stack of printed brochures. “Go over to Thomas Cook and have them arrange a party of three to Edinburgh for early April.”

Shuffling through the pamphlets, he paused on one he thought was worthy of Belle’s attention. It was a megalith of grandeur and heavily influenced by gothic revival with stone bartizans, stepped gables, and arched windows. It looked like the best of the best, and that is what he was going to give to his gal.  

"This one," he said as he handed David the brochure while dropping the rest on the desk. “Tell them I’d like suite at the North British Station Hotel.” 

David sported a look of confusion as he took the travel papers. “For a party of three, sir?”

“Miss French will require her maid,” Gold shared, slight annoyed he even had to explain. 

“Right,” David said, looking bashful after his correction.

“Make sure you tell the third ticket is for Miss French’s maid,” he advised. Last thing he wished David to do was mistakenly buy a first-class ticket at full price for a servant girl. “And make a reservation at Delmonico for next Friday night." 

David nodded. “Yes, sir.” 

“And did you place the bets like I asked?” Gold inquired, picking up his suitcase and dropping the box safely inside.

“It’s a sure thing, Mr. Gold," David said as he handed him a pile of scripts.

He might not be proficient in shorthand or operating the new telephone he just wired in the office, but David was a professional when it came to navigating New York’s seedy underground. The whole city was crooked, and it took a crooked man to rise as king. Gold deposited the slips into his coat pocket before turning to lift his bowler hat from the coat rack.

“Have a good night, sir.”

“Oh, I intend to,” he assured him as he theatrically flipped the bowler hat onto his head.

Instead of heading home, Gold jumped on an elevated train heading downtown. With every jolt of the car, he winced in pain. He hadn’t lied to David when he told him his knee was aching. He should wait until he stronger, but Gaston was working as fast as he, and it was problem that couldn’t be tabled. Reaching the 42nd street and Broadway, Gold got off the el. A rush of people passed him by as he descended the staircase a step at a time. The cold weather always made the muscles around his knee tense and slowed him down. He sighed with relief when he made it to the last step.

“I would unmask the devil! Sin crawling out the ditch of poverty and shame has but few temptations! Satan is not what poets write, beasts with horns and hooves! Until unmasked, I would describe him nothing but myrrh, and ringlet, and diamond, and flute like voice, with pleasant and mirthful conversation!”

Gold ignored the street preacher standing on a soapbox, pointing his finger at him as he crossed the street. In his rush, he unknowingly stepped in a pile of horseshit and other unsavory things he’d rather not identify. Frowning, he shook it off of his ruined shoe as he muttered a curse under his breath. No man could ever shine his shoes new again.

Entering the seedy boarding house, he spotted an old maid sitting behind the desk, enthralled by a pulp in her lap. She wore a gown that had to date back to the Civil War and a lace cap over her stark white hair.

“It’s nickel an hour. A quarter for the night,” she said, never lifting her eyes from the rag. 

“I’m looking for a Gaston Durand.” 

That seemed to get her attention. She lifted her eyes and stared at him, studying his fine tailored coat. “And who’s looking?”

Gold slipped his hand into his pocket and produced a quarter. He slid it on the counter. “Nobody,” he told her in a stern voice.

“Alright, nobody,” the old woman said, rising from her chair to palm the quarter. “He left not an hour ago.”

“I require his room key,” Gold added.

She placed her hands on her bloated waist. “You going to start trouble?”

“Trouble?" Gold scoffed, feigning offense as placing a hand on his chest. “Do I look like trouble to you, madam?”

She eyed him again, this time long and hard. “A man dressed by Mathew Rock walks into my hotel? It can’t be nothing but trouble.”

Rolling his eyes, Gold produced another quarter to go along with his request. The old woman nodded, palming the change and produced an iron key from under the desk.

“Second floor, first door to the left,” she said as she turned around and plucked the rag from her chair to continue reading. 

Gold took the key and began to walk down the narrow hallway. The boarding house reeked of opium and sex, and with a room by the hour, he imagined each touch of the balustrade ran the risk some type of foul contamination.

Entering the first door to the left, he stepped inside a closet decorated in peeling wallpaper. There was a lumpy, unmade bed lined the wall across from a desk and wobbling chair. The small window was coated in coal dust from the el passing above the building, making the room dark even though the sun hadn't set. Glancing down at his feet, he couldn’t discern the carpet’s true color from all the odious stains. On the desk a stack of letters beside a small kerosene lamp. 

Striking a match, he lit the lamp and used the dim light to discover they were Belle’s love letters to Gaston. They were all the same, sweet promises of the future and oaths of everlasting fidelity. The only thing that surprised him were the constant reminders of what they had to achieve once her father was gone. Perhaps Belle knew her freedom would require the price of his death.

Taking a seat, Gold balanced both of his hands on the hilt of his cane. Every so often, the el would pass by and cause the boarding house to quake, muffling out the annoying sounds of working girls earning their dollar for the night. 

Just when he was beginning to loose his patience, he heard the tumblers in the door click. Gold greeted the young Gaston with a smile and a spin of his cane.

The boy froze at the door. “What are you doing here?”

“Sit,” Gold ordered, pointing towards the bed. “You and I have much to discuss.”

Clenching his teeth together, Gaston entered the room and slammed the door behind him. He kept a careful eye on Gold as he crossed the room to sit on the edge of his bed.

“I had the great privileged of seeing the great John Singer Sargent work when Miss French sat for him. He travels with quite the kit, filled with oils, brushes, and tins of turpentine. It has a pungent smell, turpentine, like pine and licorice. It took weeks before it fully left the drawing room.” Gold glanced around, noticing there wasn’t one scrap of paper or sliver of charcoal lying around. “For an artist, you’re not making a lot of art.”

“What do you want?” Gaston asked, not even bothering with continuing with his ruse. The true way of winning was transform the lie into truth. That’s what separated the players from the professionals, and Gaston was nothing but a dilettante.

“Down to business, I can appreciate that,” Gold shared with an approving nod. “Whatever dalliance you have with Miss French will end today.”

Gaston narrowed his eyes into slits. “You’re the reason I haven’t been able to see her!”

“You always put allies close to your mark,” Gold explained, unconcerned about sharing his secrets with this amateur. “I hold several members of Miss French’s household in my thrall. She doesn’t do anything without my knowledge, and she certainly doesn’t get visitors I find inappropriate in her time of mourning.”

“You mean competition,” Gaston countered with a sneer.

Gold chuckled as he pointed his finger at him. “You’re funny,” he admitted, bearing his crooked teeth at him. He studied his strong stature and good looks, wondering why he chose to portray himself a starving artist of all things. “Why a painter?”

“Isn’t that what most of these dollar princesses want?” Gaston replied without a sliver of emotion. “To slum it with the bohemians they read about in the World, wishing for once they could unlace their corsets and stroll along the Tenderloin.”

The thought of her walking the red-light district, working in some clip joint filled with smoke and sin, left a bitter taste in his mouth. He wouldn't allow a future where the brute spent her last dime, leaving her destitute and vulnerable to even more lecherous men than he.

Gold narrowed his eyes and pointed his finger at him. “That will never happen.”

“And you’ll never be able to make Belle yours,” Gaston countered.

Sometimes, when he was in amidst of a con, there would be a flicker of doubt or worry. This is the first time where he had unequivocal faith that Belle would soon sport his wedding band upon her finger.

“Miss French is already mine,” Gold said with resolute confidence as he began leisurely spinning the cane in his hand.

Gaston sneered. “You’re an ugly cripple old enough to be her father, she’ll never love you.”

Gold gripped the hilt of his cane, halting it as it spun, and swallowed down the rage boiling inside of him. “Women prefer men, not boys playing with toys,” he said through clenched teeth. 

“We’re going to run away to Paris together,” Gaston testified, but Gold had heard enough. He dove his hand into his coat’s breast pocket and ignored Gaston's ridiculous claims about his nonexistent future with Belle. “And she’s going to—”

Gaston went silent at the sight of the cash folded in his hand. It was a lovely sight, freshly printed with crisp edges, and the sound of the paper crinkling in his hand was like music to his ears. He swore that money was the only mistress he’d take besides Belle. 

“She’s going to what?” Gold asked, tilting his head aside as he began to fold back the dollars one by one. “How much will it take for you to leave New York?”

Gaston’s hypnotized eyes followed the flick of Gold's thumb against the emerald green paper.

“Fifty?” Gold inquired, turning another bill. “Eighty?” Then another. “Hundred?” Then another. “Please tell me when to stop.”

“That girl is worth two-hundred thousand dollars,” Gaston stated, his eyes darting back and forth from the cash to Gold’s amused eyes. “You really think I’m going to leave for a hundred?”

“Yes, I really think you’re going to leave for a hundred.” Gold then removed the bookie slips from his other pocket. “Because you’ve placed several hundred dollar wagers, on credit, at Silver Dollar Smith's saloon on tonight’s match. I have it on good authority that the match is fixed, and unfortunately, you did not pick wisely.”

Gaston sneered. “I haven’t made any bets!"

“No, you haven’t,” Gold conceded, shrugging with apathy as he flashed him the slips. “But they were made in your name.”

He finally saw flicker of fear in Gaston’s eyes. 

“Take the hundred dollars, or brave Monk Eastman’s knuckledusters,” he told him as he motioned to stand. His knee protested at the brisk movement, shooting a sharp pain up his thigh and into his lower back, but kept his face stoic through the agony. 

“You son of a bitch,” Gaston snarled, unaware of the pain that plagued him.

“This is how the game is played.” Gold lifted his cane and pointed the hilt at him. “And you have lost.” 

Turning around, Gold procured a notepad and a pen from the desk. “You are going write Miss French a letter explaining your swift departure from the city, that you no longer love her and have run off with another woman.”

Gaston looked at him as if he’d grown two heads. “She’ll never believe that." 

“She will,” Gold countered with conviction. “Oh, she’ll cry her pretty little eyes out and swear to the heavens that she’ll never to give her heart to another. Then, one day, her heart will grow whole and she’ll yearn for that maddening touch of love again. And when she does, she’ll find that the empty spaces of her life have been filled with me.”

Lifting the pen, Gold dropped it on the table with thwack. “Write,” he commanded.

Fuming with anger, Gaston crossed the room and sat down in the chair. It took only one look at the slips and the pile of cash before he picked up the pen and set it to paper.

“Dearest Belle, or whatever you call her,” Gold began, slamming a twenty dollar bill on the table. As soon as Gaston saw the note, the pen began to dance along the paper. “I have betrayed you.”

“She’ll never believe I wrote that,” Gaston argued.

“I don’t care.” Gold gritted out through his teeth, loosing patience. “I am in the throes of love,” he dictated, slapping another bill down. “I met her at the dance hall and we running off to Paris like we’ve always dreamed.” Gold dealt another. “Or some nonsense like that.”

It was cruel, but necessary. It wasn’t enough for him to leave without a word, Gaston had to thoroughly break Belle's heart for her to give up all hope of his return. He couldn’t make his move if she still carried a torch for her starving artist. 

“Sign it,” he briskly ordered. 

Conceding, Gaston scribbled his name at the bottom. Before the ink was dry, Gold lifted up his cane and swung it like a club. His arm vibrated with the impact of the hilt across the sap's skull. With a groan, Gaston fell off the chair and landed on the floor with a noisy thump. He’d hit him well enough not to draw blood, or completely incapacitate him, but his movements were slow and his speech nonsensical.

After propping his cane against the wall, Gold bent down and dragged Gaston onto the bed. “Up you get,” Gold ordered, straining his muscles as he dragged him up the mattress to lay his head upon the soiled pillow.

“You…hit me,” Gaston muttered, lifting one of his hands to the crown of his head, but missed it by a foot and knocked his hand into the wall.

“Aye,” Gold replied. “I did.”

Plucking his suitcase off the floor, he set it on the desk and fished out the small box. The contents nosily clink together as he unrolled it from the brown paper wrapping. Lifting the lid, Gold spotted the vial labelled Bayer's Heroin and an imposing metal syringe.

Turning around, Gold lifted up Gaston's sleeve to bear his inner elbow. When he was done he roughly yanked the tie from Gaston’s cracked collar to use as a tourniquet.

“What are…you…doin’?” Gaston mumbled, his head rolling back and forth on the pillow like a bearing ball.

“I’m going to kill you with an overdose of heroin,” Gold shared nonchalantly as he knotted the cheap, imitation silk tie above his elbow.

Gaston gulped. “You…can’t.”

“I’m not a fool, Mr. Durand,” he said, tapping to reveal his veins in the crook of his arm. “You and I both know that you were going to run back to Miss French and expose me for the swindler that I am, and I can’t have that.”

“I wasn’t…” he denied, truthfully.

Gold pulled back his head and scoffed. “Then I’d let you leave town with my money? That’s even more hilarious than the first.”

Gold was no physician, disregarding the notches as he emptied the vial of heroin into the syringe. Bending over his already delirious body, he effortlessly slipped the needle into one of Gaston’s plump vein. He pressed down the plunger until there wasn’t a drop of heroin left in the needle. In a few heartbeats, Gaston went limp and his eyelids began to flutter.

Carefully, but thoroughly, Gold searched through the shambles of his room. He collected any evidence of Belle from his life by removing all the letters from his desk and his person. The only thing he kept was Gaston’s last letter, folding it neatly and slipping it into his breast pocket for safekeeping. Afterwards, Gold admired his work. It was a thing of beauty, with every thread tied in the neatest of knots. An overdose in a disreputable boarding house filled with scent of opium wouldn’t raise any suspicions.

Returning to his bedside, Gold watched with apathy as he began to asphyxiate. 

“You were wrong before. Miss French doesn’t have two-hundred thousand.” Gold said as he buttoned his coat, watching as foam began to seep out of his mouth. “She has two-million.”

Limping out of the room, he began to sing one of his favorite tunes.

_“For in gay New York where the gay bohemians dwell, t_ _here’s a colony called the Tenderloin, though why I cannot tell._ _A certain man controls the place with no regard for coin—the Czar, the Czar, the Czar of the Tenderloin.”_

 

~*~

 

He ignored the pain of his leg as he marched up Broadway, picking up a box of fine chocolates and bouquet of lavender and calla lilies at Henry Maillards. It was a struggle, balancing his suitcase and his purchases with one hand while the other depended on his cane. He would have flagged down a Hackney if they weren’t so expensive. He might enjoy luxury, but he didn't waste his money on a overpriced carriage fares.  

Returning to respectable Upper West Side, a breeze carried by the Hudson River fanned against his tired face. It was peaceful without the noise of train engines and smell of burning coal. 

Walking up the stairs of the elephantine mansion, he withdrew Gaston’s letter from his breast pocket and slipped it into the mail slot. After ringing the doorbell, an unknown maid answered and welcomed him inside. She took his coat, suitcase, and bowler hat. It made carrying the box of chocolates and bouquet of flowers in his free hand easier. 

He froze when he saw Dr. Baker slip from the parlor room door. She was wearing her wool suit and carried her heavy physician’s bag at her side.

“Mr. Gold,” she said, slightly surprised to see him. She raised an amused eyebrow when she spotted the chocolates and flowers in his hands. “Ah, Henry Maillards,” she appraised before pressing her lips together as she tried not to laugh. “You’re still going to tell me she just your friend?” 

“Sara…” Gold warned.

She pulled her head back, slightly miffed by his tone. “It’s Sara now, is it?” The amusement slowly disappeared from her face. “I’m glad you recommended me," she told him with sincerity. 

“Is she alright?” He earnestly demanded, growing concerned.

“I can’t divulge that information, she’s my patient,” Dr. Baker argued. 

The friendliness vanished from his face as he took a step forward. He considered Sara a friend, but what they arranged was nothing but business. She needed access to Belle's elite circle, and he needed information. 

“Don’t forget I’m the one who set up this appointment. I can snatch it away just as easy," he reminded her without a hint of kindness.

Dr. Baker didn’t appear the least bit intimidated. “Now I see what all the fuss is about,” she said as she appraised him through her spectacles. “Fine,” she relented with a sigh. “Physically, she’s as healthy as a nineteen year old would be.”

“But mentally?” Gold questioned.

“This isn’t hysteria, this is boredom.” Dr. Baker bluntly informed him. “She should have been finishing her education, but instead she was isolated in this house.” Her words began to sound heated. “She told me the only hobbies her father allowed her to have is playing with dolls, embroidery, and playing cards with him. And maybe, if she made a fuss, he’d take her out to an art exhibit of her choosing.” 

These are things he already knew. He wanted to know her secrets, the most intimate details of her life that he could use to his advantage.

“She needs exercise and stimulation,” she began. “I recommended her to enroll in a class, find a hobby of her own choosing and have the chance to meet other ladies her age.”

“But, she’s well?” Gold asked, still worried.

“She’ll need to be weaned off the laudanum,” she explained, shaking her head in contempt. “So, she’ll need a distraction.” Dr. Baker looked at him, tilting her head aside as humor danced her eyes. “But I suppose you’re set out to be that distraction?” 

Gold remained silent, but Dr. Baker didn’t linger for an answer. “Goodnight, Mr. Gold,” she said as she took her leave. 

Wincing in pain, he adjusted the box of chocolates and bouquet in his free hand before he limped into the parlor room. Belle was sitting at the fire, wearing a pair of spectacles as she turned the pages of a book. 

“Ah, Mr. Gold!” Belle exclaimed as she promptly closed the book. She slid it on the table beside her before pulling the spectacles off of her face. “This is a surprise.”

“I hope it is not too late.” Gold displayed the box of chocolates and bouquet of flowers in his hands. “I saw these I thought they’d offer you a speck of cheer in your time of mourning.”

“You went to Maillards! For me?” She asked, utterly surprised at such kindness, and accepted his gifts.

“I’ve heard the boxes are quite collectable,” he said, gesturing towards the wooden box painted with a Parisian cityscape on the lid. “And I know how you like art.”

“It’s lovely!” She exclaimed before she turned her attention to the beautiful arranged bouquet. She dipped her nose into the silky petals to inhale the flower’s sweet scent and sighed with delight. “And lavender, my favorite! How did you know?”

“Lucky guess,” Gold offered.

She quickly gestured for him to take her father’s mammoth chair. “Please stay, Mr. Gold. I am in need of some company tonight.”

Gold smiled. He didn’t even have to try anymore.

“That would be a lovely way to end my day, Miss French.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Notes**
> 
> The North British Station Hotel is today's Balmoral Hotel. 
> 
> The Tenderloin was NYC's red-light district. In the King's Handbook, it describes these boarding houses in that area as "establishments are exclusively for men, and in theme will find the apotheosis of misery and vice. Petty thieves, hopeless drunkards, toughs and reprobates of all kinds, loaders and unfortunates whom fate has served unkindly in their struggle for existence congregate there night after night. The general public knows very little about these houses of despair, save as occasionally it may read in the daily newspaper of the death there of some man who was once respected and influential among his fellow citizens, until drink dragged him down. In 1891 there were 116 such houses. A single room goes only as high as 25 cents a night." [source](https://archive.org/stream/kingshandbookof00king#page/212/mode/2up)
> 
> The street preacher is based on Reverend Thomas De Witt Talmage and his speech "Unmask the Devil." He called NYC the "modern-day Gomorrah" for allowing the Tenderloin district to exist. [source](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KHDgdjZePms)
> 
> Mathew Rock was known as the "tailor _par excellence_ of America. He commands the most eminent patronage, and obtains the highest prices for his productions." [source](https://archive.org/stream/kingshandbookof00king#page/800/mode/2up)
> 
> Monk Eastman was a gangster who founded the Irish Eastman Gang. Their hangout was the Silver Dollar Smith's saloon. [source](http://www.brooklynvisualheritage.org/silver-dollar-smiths)
> 
> Bayer produced Heroin as a cough suppressant, but it was also being used as a "non-addictive" morphine substitute to help addicts wean themselves off of morphine. I'm taking creative liberties with Gaston's quick death.
> 
> The song, _The Czar of the Tenderloin_ , was written about Captain Alexander "Clubber" Williams. You can listen to the original recording on brown wax cylinder [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ijAqGMFieBg).
> 
> Hackney’s were private carriages, the 1900 version of taxi, and the fare cost around $1. The cost of other modes of public transportation ranged from $0.03-$0.10. [source](https://archive.org/stream/kingshandbookof00king#page/122/mode/2up)
> 
> The King's Handbook explains Henry Maillards as "a name dear to every intelligent girl and woman, as the name suggest not only chocolates, frozen violets and other delicate confections, but also the very highest grade of luxuries. A handsome box, covered with satin, upon which is painted a bit of landscape or a figure by an artist of repute, becomes a work of art. Thus Maillard’s boxes are highly prized long after they have served their original purpose." [source](https://archive.org/stream/kingshandbookof00king#page/802/mode/2up)
> 
> find me at <http://morganfir.tumblr.com/>


	4. An Evening at Delmonico’s

Gold imagined the smell of lavender, the sight of chestnut hair and fair features when he kissed her. Over the years, he’d accomplished the fine art of deception. He knew how to keep his body recoiling in disgust and make his lover feel the false yearning in his touch. However, her could never completely fool himself. With every kiss, every brush with his fingers, every caress with his tongue, every thrust of his cock, he nailed another wound into his damaged soul.

The maid pulled away to scream. “Yes!”

He silenced her by clapping his palm over her open mouth. He felt her hot, wet breath fan against his hand as he used his other to play with her clit. Gold won’t be inside her anymore, he can’t bear it. 

“Tell me,” he began, rubbing his fingers between her legs. “Did the letter break her little heart? Did she cry for days?”

Slowly, he removed his hand from her mouth, desperate to know what happened after Belle read her love’s last letter. How he wished he could be a fly on the wall during that wonderfully crafted moment. Better yet, if she turned to him for comfort. Oh, how he'd make her forget all about that ridiculous sap. 

“She didn’t cry,” Zelena said, gasping as he began to use the butt of his palm to work at her.

“What?” Gold asked, suddenly perplexed.

Zelena grabbed his shoulders as she leaned back against the table she just polished. “She read it and then threw it in the fireplace.” 

Gold spared no time finishing her off, his mind racing with panicked thoughts of failure. Gaston had baited him with the plausibility that Belle would see through his false words, but he hadn’t thought the sod might be right. What if she was still pinning for him, living under the fantasy that he'd return after he realized what crime he'd committed against her. It was not a possibility he accounted for.

When the maid collapsed in bliss, he used her apron to clean his hand and considered his options going forward.

“I love you!”

Gold paused, stilling every muscle in his body as her Irish accented words hung in the air. He wanted to cringe, tell her that she was delusional to think he'd ever love a woman like her, but he didn't. His mind was a stage, and in flash he drew back the curtains to uncover his perfected fallacy for her to see.

“My darling!” Gold reached for her, pulling her from the surface of the table back into his arms. “As I love you!”

“I didn’t think…I thought…” Zelena wrapped his arms around his neck, sighing with happiness. “You’re always so cold towards me.”

“I didn’t know you felt that way.” Gold braced his chin upon her shoulder. He rolled his eyes, irritated that he had to continue the ridiculous charade. “It was easier to push you away than to imagine you’d ever could love an ugly man like me.”

“I don't care 'bout your scars! I've never have,” Zelena declared.

It was time, Gold thought, and began planting the seeds in her head. “I wish…”

Pulling back, she looked up at him with such love and hope. Gold had to bit his cheek to keep from laughing at her blinding stupidity. 

“What is it you wish, love?” Zelena asked, cupping his face in her hands.

“I wish we could be together!” Gold proclaimed like lovesick boy. 

Zelena looked pensive, but then she lit up with elation. “Why can't we? You have her money, right? Let's steal her fortune and leave New York!"

“You brilliant little maid!” He fawned, pretending that he overjoyed by her cunning, deceitful plan. If only she knew his heart belonged entirely to the mistress she despised.

“We'll go to London, or maybe even Paris,” Zelena feverishly suggested before a giggle escaped her lips. “It doesn’t matter as long as long as we’re together!”

“Yes,” he encouraged, forcing himself to sound revered by her presence. 

“And we’ll laugh about the silly, little fool while we dine on champagne and caviar!” Zelena exclaimed, her eyes clouded by a fantasy of an impossible future. 

“She is a foolish girl!” He declared like he was half-mad.

Gold had built their relationship on the foundation of her spiteful jealousy for Belle, it only made sense that she'd continue to feed his false lust for her by mentioning the damage she wished to inflict on her mistress. He destained speaking of Belle in such a cruel way, but it wasn't entirely false. She had to be a bit foolish to welcome his villainous presence into her life. Even if she was unaware of his crimes, there was a stark power inequality between them. He didn't know why it concerned him, especially when he needed it to take advantage of her, but maybe a part of him wished to protect Belle from himself.

His thoughts were interrupted when all the clocks in the house chimed in perfect synchronization, a compliment to the household staff that daily wound the clocks. He withdrew from Zelena's arms and grabbed the tailcoat that was draped over the back of a dining chair.

“What are you doing?” She asked as she reached out to draw him back into her embrace. “We don’t have to pretend anymore.”

“We must for now, darling,” he told her, turning around to cradle her cheek with his palm. He forced himself to look longingly into her green eyes. “She can’t suspect a thing until I move her funds.”

“How long must we wait?” She asked, growing eager.

“Next week,” he told her as donned his tuxedo jacket. “Meet me at the Grand Central Depot on Sunday at noon. Then we’ll run away together.”

Before she could say anything else, Gold kissed her hard on the mouth. Just as he expected, she melted, holding onto him as if he would slip through her fingers like smoke. In reality, that was all Mr. Gold was—an illusion made from smoke and mirrors.

He heard the click of hooves echo from the drive as she tried to slip her tongue into her mouth. Pulling away, he slicked back his pomaded hair and yanked at the hem of his creamed-colored waistcoat. Thankfully, she hadn’t stained his expensive attire with her polish-covered hands. They both walked out of the dining room, fixing a loose strand of hair and adjusting their garments back into their proper position. Gold stood at the foot of the stairs, playing with the chain of his pocket watch as Zelena patiently waited by the door for her mistress to return.

When she opened the door, Belle rushed inside to escape from the bitter cold.

“Mr. Gold!” She blurted out when she saw him in her foyer. Her brown eyes widened at the sight of his tuxedo.

“Did you forget?” Mr. Gold asked.

Belle continued to eye the frock before she gasped in recognition. “Delmonico’s! That’s tonight!”

“Aye,” Gold said, nodding in confirmation. 

“I’m dreadfully sorry! I took Dr. Baker suggestion and enrolled in a drawing course.” Belle opened the portfolio and slid out a sheet of parchment paper. “The Cooper Union just opened an art school for women.” 

Belle took a step forward as she showed him her work. It was a sketch of a basket of fruits, a subject suitable for a beginner student. It was oddly proportioned, lacking depth or correct perspective, but she did an adequate job of adding texture with cross-hatching and stippling. It wasn’t a masterpiece, but it wasn’t awful.

“I know it’s not much, but it’s only my first lesson,” she said, growing shy as she shared her amateur composition with him. “I must confess, I think I like being there more than the actual drawing.”

“It’s lovely, Miss French,” Gold told her, flashing a warm smile. “I’m glad that you enjoyed it.” 

“I _am_ sorry that I forgot all about our engagement,” Belle told him.

“There’s still time to catch it,” Gold offered, drawing the gold watch from his pocket. He cradled it in his hand as he checked the time. “We have an hour or so before we lose the reservation. Would that be sufficient time to prepare?”

Belle looked doubtful.

“Apologizes, I don’t know…what is appropriate…or required…for a lady…” he stopped to nervously laugh. “To be truthful, I’m not sure I know anything about ladies.”

Belle reached over, placing her hand on the wrist that held his watch. For a moment he thought it was a phantom, a illusion he conjured out of his deepest desires, but reality sunk in when she gave him a small squeeze in encouragement. This was promising, Gold thought. 

“An hour shall be enough time,” she assured him.

“Pardon, ma’am.” Zelena slinked out from the shadows of the foyer. Gold watched as Belle’s hand slipped from his wrist at the sound her maid’s voice. “Your black evening dress is still at the dressmakers for alterations.”

“Oh,” Belle said as disappointment flooded her face. 

He shot Zelena a curious look. Was the dressmaker truly that lazy, or did she forget to pick it up in hopes of ruining their plans? He instantly assumed the latter. 

“I have an idea!” Belle chimed, nearly throwing her portfolio at Zelena. “Wait here,” she ordered before she ran upstairs. “I should only take a few minutes!”

Gold learned that when a woman said a few minutes, she really meant an hour. He was thankful for the random chairs arranged along hallway, taking a seat and resting his cane against the wall as he waited. For a moment, he though the evening was a loss until he heard the rustle of skirts from the staircase.

Lifting his eyes, he spotted Belle dressed in an evening gown of glistening lavender silk trimmed with black lace. Her neckline was low, framing the elegant curve of her bare shoulders. A double looped string of jet beads hung from her elegant neck and a pair of black elbow-length opera gloves covered her lithe arms. Her hair was swept in a messy, yet structured bouffant reminiscent of those Gibson Girls he saw in magazines. His breath caught in his throat as he watched Belle almost float to the bottom of the staircase. Gold never had anything, anyone as beautiful as Belle walk _towards_ him.

Gulping, he bolted from his seat. He placed all of his weight on his good leg, too awestruck to tear his eyes away to find his cane.

“You…you…” Gold gulped again, his eyes drifting below her neckline to look upon her wasp waist. “Are…” 

“Yes?” Belle encouraged, her heels clicking loudly on the marble floor.

Tearing his eyes away from her figure, Gold saw that she looked slightly amused as she eagerly waited for a compliment to free itself from his nervous throat.

“More beautiful than a portrait of Diana.”

Belle blinked, clearly not expecting such an answer. “The goddess?”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. It was too soon to seduce her with flattery, but the words slipped from his lips before he could correct himself.

“That has be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” Belle admitted, looking just as wonderstruck as he. “Thank you,” she said with earnest.

Gold blew air out of his nose; relieved she didn’t scold him for such an inappropriate remark. He was still the conservator to her estate, nothing more. Not yet.

“Miss! Please reconsider!” Her lady's maid came rushing down the staircase with a look of horror as she carried her black velvet cape draped over her arm. “It’s too soon to go out in half-mourning!”

“And leave Mr. Gold alone on a Friday night?” Belle looked mildly insulted that she would break her engagements based on a dress. “That would be rather rude of me.” 

“Miss…” the maid pleaded.

Belle didn’t heed her warning. “Zelena?” She looked over her shoulder at the maid that was standing by the door. Gold frowned, realizing he’d completely forgotten about her. “Have the coach come back around.”

Zelena briskly nodded, the jealousy rolling off her in waves. With a pout, she spun on the heel of her polished boot and marched towards stables. He had to get rid of her before she ruined everything with her devious sabotage and bitter attitude. 

When they both slipped on their winter outerwear, Gold offered his arm. Belle gladly took it, slipping his gloved hand around the crook of his elbow without hesitation. For a woman that had just been jilted by her forbidden bohemian lover, she bore no signs of a broken heart.

The ride to Delmonico’s was filled with tension, wayward glances, and nervous laughter. Gold busied himself with his watch, clicking it open to promptly close it, then pull it back out again to see only a minute had passed since the last time he'd checked. When he dared to look up from his watch, he would catch her eyes before abruptly glancing away. He told Gaston that women preferred men, but he couldn’t deny that he felt like a young boy on the verge of manhood again during that carriage ride.

Delmonico’s was the only establishment in the city that rivaled any first-class Parisian restaurant. Most of Mrs. Astor’s belles had their debut here, and their succulent fare was worthy of the newspapers' praise. Even the beauty of the dining room was worthy of the trip to midtown. It mimicked the grand style of neoclassical French architecture, with paneled walls were decorated by gilded carvings of cornucopias nestled between interlaced laurel sprays. Newly electrified chandeliers hung from the ceiling in a glittering nest of stranded crystals and swooping gold fixtures.

Living among the elite had desensitized him to their curious natures, but nothing could prepare him for the storm Belle sparked by removing her cloak. He heard a few gasps, followed by whispers loud enough to be heard over the string quartet playing in the corner. Apparently, the maid was correct in her assumption that her walking out in half-mourning would stir quite the scandal.

Gold watched her carefully, determined to spot the slightest sign of discomfort to assure her they could leave, but it was never needed. Belle glided through the dining room with her head held high, oblivious to the gossip she began by wearing a purple dress. 

They were seated at a small table for two. As he flipped his tails over the back of his seat, Belle busied herself with removing her evening gloves a finger at a time. 

“Belle?” Gold began, treading carefully as not to upset her. “You know everyone is staring at you.”

“Oh yes, I know,” she acknowledged as she dropped her gloves into her lap, unbothered. “I shouldn’t be in half-mourning for another five months, but I’ve grown terribly dull of black.” 

She was unashamed, almost giddy in her faux pas. He hadn’t even considered that Belle would grow restless in her mourning period, or defy social convention to suit her own needs. It was a gem of information that he could use to his advantage. 

Picking up the menu from his plate, Gold suddenly felt intimidated when he saw it was written entirely in French. He knew some words and phrases, but he wasn’t cultured enough to understand their cryptic menu. He heard laughable tales about tourists accidentally ordering a meal of pickles and buttered sandwiches because they couldn’t decipher the menu. He assumed it was an urban legend, but he feared that it could happen to him.

Gold dropped the menu, admitting his defeat with a timid smile. “I might need your assistance.”

“Oh!” Belle leaned over, excited that she could assist him. Usually, it was the other way around. “Instead of separating their offerings by course, it’s separated by hot and cold— _chaud_ and _froid_.”

“Ah,” he said, picking up his menu and noticing that it was suddenly easier to understand. “You speak French?” 

“Hardly.” Belle huffed. “Miss Comstock School for Exceptionally Fine Girls only taught me enough to order a meal.”

When the waiter approached their table, Gold ordered _rissoles a la pompadour_ for the lady, as requested by Belle moments earlier. It was proper for him to order for her, but he wouldn't dare presume what she'd like to eat. He ordered the only thing he could translate, the _filet de boeuf avec sauce béarnaise,_ figuring he couldn’t go wrong with plate of cooked beef.

“And might we have a bottle of the Moet brute?” Gold added, shooting Belle a devilish look.

The waiter gave compliments of their excellent choices before promptly heading towards the kitchens.

“Champagne?” Belle shifted in her seat, uneasy. “I don’t know…”

“Have you even had a drink before?” Gold wondered.

“Yes,” Belle lied, but Gold shot her with a knowing look. “Alright, no, I haven’t.”

“Then why condemn something you never tried?” Gold questioned as he relaxed in his chair.

“I haven’t visited an opium den but I know I shouldn’t!” Belle declared, appalled.

Gold laughed, finding hilarity in her extreme reasoning. “Opium and champagne are two very different things.”

“Honestly, can you not see the problems associated with the consumption of alcohol? The vice it breeds in this city? How men stumble home drunk and beat their wives? Have their children starve because they spent it all at the saloon?” Belle argued with passion, but was clearly regurgitated words first spoken from the pulpit of her Temperance Union.

“While I think those things are tragic,” he began with sympathy, “I blame the man who has led his family into ruination and destitution, not the drink. It is one out of many vices placed upon this earth to test our fortitude.”

Belle opened her mouth to speak, but paused when a waiter came over to pour iced water into their empty glasses.

“You speak like a preacher,” she told him when the waiter left.

“Is that a compliment, or is that your way of telling me that I bore you?” Gold inquired.

“You don’t bore me!” She quickly declared, then looking away when she caught herself. “That is to say, I do enjoy our conversations.”

“Ah, you mean arguments,” he corrected.

“Now you're putting words in my mouth,” Belle said with a hint of an amused smile on her rouged lips.

Gold leaned back into his chair and placed his fingertips upon the edge of the linen covered table. “What brought you to the Temperance Union in the first place?”

Belle leaned forward, probably eager to tempt him into a life of righteousness and sobriety, but he’d already found his own version in the darkness.

“For they good they do,” Belle said, catching his doubtful stare. “Truly! Last year the Riverside union set up a milk station on Mott Street, we gave poor children safe, pasteurized milk. We lobbied Tammany Hall to help pass legislation to protect...uh... _working girls_. And,” she paused, lifting her spine with pride, “they also believe in votes for women.”

“So they can pass prohibition,” Gold added, lifting his glass of water to his lips to sip.

The smile fell from Belle’s face, her mood turning glacial. “Do you not believe in women’s suffrage, Mr. Gold?”

“I do,” he said with an apathetic shrug. “Only if they vote for the right party.”

Belle blinked, digesting his words. “Doesn't that go against our country’s democratic principles?”

“Never said I was fair,” Gold answered, truthful. “In fact, I drive a hard bargain and demand a high price.”

“Is this for your legal advice or for your company?” Belle asked, tilting her head aside. She tilted her head aside, examining him as if he was a puzzling piece of art. He wanted to feel flatted, but he only felt terror under her gaze. He hid his darkness well, but sometimes he's spot a stranger on the street and they'd recognize his true nature before recoiling. He wouldn't let her see that part of himself, ever.

Gold stared, unseeingly, at the perfect row of silver cutlery arranged besides his plate. He began to rake his finger along the edge of the table, distracting himself with the touch of fine linen under his callous skin.

“I assure you, Miss French, it’s a price I'll never require you to pay.”

He dared not look at her, in fear of seeing rejection or repulsion, but he found a comfort in the charged silence between them. Gold preferred silence than string of heated words. 

His nerves eased when the waiter returned with their entrees and a bottle of champagne. Lifting his eyes from his sizzling steak, Belle was observing the waiter pour the fizzy alcohol into a crystal flute. He found it adorable the way she stared at the bubbling champagne with mixture of anxiety and fascination.

When the waiter left, he leaned over the table and raised his glass of champagne to toast her.

“To you, Miss French,” Gold saluted.

“Me?” Belle gushed, flatted by his attention. She was starved for it after years of living for her overbearing father, so he intended on feeding her with his constant devotion. 

“A farewell,” he mused, gesturing to the silk gown that was glowing from warm lights from the crystal chandeliers above. “To your mourning weeds.” 

That seemed to be a valediction that she would conduct with a sip of with the Devil’s agent. She took a deep breath, visibly gathering the courage to overcome her prejudices, and raised the glass to click against his. And with a swallow, Belle broke her solemn oath to temperance. Gold took a sip of his own, watching her over the stem of his glass to observe her delightful expression. He smiled when she rubbed her nose with the length of her index finger.

“It tickles,” she shared with a relieved laugh.

Not willing to wait for the waiter, he took the champagne from the bucket of ice and topped off her glass.

“Now, are you trying to inebriate me?” Belle asked him, slightly joking.

“Possibly?” Gold shrugged, playing coy as he topping off his own. “These are the days of mirth and frivolity, and you, Miss French, have a lot of catching up to do.”

Belle demurely covered her mouth as she erupted in a fit of giggles like a mischievous schoolgirl. He’d continue to corrupt her, in the most innocent of ways, if he could  share something preciously new with her.

With a nod, Belle took another sip. 

Belle balanced out the alcohol with delicate bites of chicken cakes while Gold feasted on his prime cute of beef. 

“Why is it that you never talk about yourself?” Belle asked, slipping her forkful of chicken between her lips.

His hand stilled, his knife deep into the thick cut of steak. “What is it you’d like to know?” He calmly asked before proceeding to carve a square of meat until it parted like butter from the filet.

“Anything really! Your childhood in Scotland? Your parents? If you have any siblings?” She let out an uncomfortable chuckle. “I don’t even know if you have any children!”

“I assure you, I’ve been a lifelong bachelor,” he told her with a theatrical wink.

“You’re avoiding the question,” she playfully chided.

His mood immediately darkened when he knew she wasn't going to give up her questioning.

“You wouldn’t want to know,” he coldly told her before slipping the beef into his mouth.

“Of course I do!” Belle protested, dropping her knife and fork on her plate with a noisy clank. “You know so much about me, but I don’t know a single thing about you. That’s hardly fair or appropriate, is it?”

Gold dropped his silverware onto the plate and pulled the napkin from his lap to blot the sides of his mouth. He could toss a lie about his modest upbringing in the middling suburbs, going to school and moving onto university while his mother stayed at home and his father managed a successful shop, or something equally trite. Then he found a weakness in himself. He selfishly wanted Belle to love the man underneath the fine suit and cultured tongue, not the illusion crafted with smoke and mirrors.

“My mother was what you’d call a _working girl_ ,” he began, using the phase so just so delicately wielded only moments ago. “My father made his profession as a grifter, then circulated my mother around when he ran out of coin to spend at the card table.” 

Gold watched her face morph from earnest interest to pitying horror. He wanted to laugh, say it was a crude joke and move on, but it was impossible to keep the truth from slipping from his bitter lips now that he’d begun.

“Yes, I had siblings, many of them. But only three were able to survive my father’s beatings to be born. Three girls, all dead by typhoid within hours of each other.”

He closed his eyes in grief when he vividly remembered the three tiny, wooden boxes arranged side by side in the paupers' graveyard. Gold sighed, despising that carpenters even made coffins that small.

When he looked up, he swore he saw tears in Belle’s eyes. He’d upset her with his twisted tale. He was foolish to assume she would care to know such horrible things, it was a past that even he tried to forget. 

“I’m sorry,” he began, shifting in his seat with discomfort. “This is an inappropriate topic for—”

“Tell me more.” 

Gold jaw dropped, feeling a blow to the gut when he heard the unbelievable compassion in her voice. She sat across from him without judgment, nor repulsion, but with a sincerity and grace that he'd rarely experienced.

“We ended up in the poorhouse,” Gold said, recalling the day that he walked into that formidable fortress, torn from his mother’s side to be taken to the children’s wing. “For ten hours a day, six days a week, they made my mother unravel rope just to have her work. They didn’t tell me…when she…” he drifted off, attempting to envision her kind face again. Sadly, time had paid its price and blurred her likeness from his memory. He didn't even have a photograph of her. “They didn’t tell me when she passed. When they did, there was already a patch of fresh grass upon her unmarked grave.”

“ _That’s cruel_.” Belle held her palm over her heart as she shook her head in contempt. “Why would they do such a thing?” 

“The poorhouse is not a charity, but a prison without bars. It’s meant to break your spirit, punish you for being poor in the hopes you’ll never return.”

With a vacant stare, Gold watched the bubbles in his champagne rise to the surface. Never did he think as a young boy he’d be sitting in the best restaurant in New York, eating steak and drinking fine champagne while in the blessed company of an American heiress. However, the torment of the poorhouse never went away. The shadow was pinned to his back, never to be unfastened, and carried it within wherever he went. Even with a wallet full of dollars, there was always that lingering fear of destitution and starvation.

“I ran away when I was fifteen. Scotland held nothing but despair, I figure I’d take my chances in America,” he remarked, finding the two weeks in steerage easier to endure than his years in the poorhouse.

Truth was a fickle thing. In law, he didn’t need the truth to win a case, he only had to present his argument better than his opponent. Truth mattered little in the courtroom, but he discovered it was necessary element of courtship. When he spoke his truth, testified for his youthful years in Scotland, he found that the shadow of the poorhouse slipped a little further away.

“I’ve never told anyone that," he confessed.

“Thank you,” she whispered, grateful.

Gold felt sick. “For what?”

“Confiding in me,” Belle answered. “Being brave enough to share your story with me.”

It wasn’t bravery, but the hope she could love him despite his lowly upbringing. “Believe me, bravery has nothing to do with it.”

“It was still a brave thing to do," Belle insisted.

Without notice, Belle reached over the table to place her soft hand over his. Startled by her touch, Gold jumped in his seat and accidentally knocked over a nearby glass of water with the back of his hand. He winced, watching the linen soak up the liquid as an army of waiters descended upon their table. The room erupted into more annoying whispers.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out.

Belle narrowed her eyes in confusion. “What could you possibly be sorry for?”

“I ruined your evening,” he reasoned, gesturing to water stains sprinkling the neckline of her bodice. 

“You ruined nothing,” she hastily protested. "It's just water." 

“Miss French,” Gold began, but found himself utterly distracted when he again saw her hand sliding across the table. He remained still as she braced her forearm over the wet patch in the tablecloth and slipped her fingertips between his. It was the most innocent of touches, just the tips of their fingers resting side by side. Perhaps she was testing if her touch was welcome, or maybe she didn't want to spark more whispers from their nosey audience. Either way, he welcomed it by lightly brushing the pad of his thumb against the side of her finger.

“Please,” she whispered as she leaned over her abandoned meal and glass of flattening champagne, “call me Belle.”

Gold licked his lips at the delicious thought of finally retiring her formal address of Miss French.

" _Belle_."

A ragged sigh escaped his parted lips when he was realized that it was the most beautiful word he'd ever spoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping you guys finally liked the fluff, I can't help but make Gold all adorkable when he's around Belle.
> 
> **Historical Notes**
> 
> Let me say that Gold's viewpoint of addiction in no way represents mine. It's 1900, so they probably didn't have the scientific research to understand addiction as we do today. Also, I kinda wanted him to be on the cusp of suffrage and anti-suffrage. He's kinda apathetic about it, but he isn't exactly a paragon of modern feminism. It's something he'll open himself to as the story progresses.
> 
> The King's Handbook lists "the Women’s Art School in the Cooper Union is intended to supply to women of taste and capacity, from anywhere, a free education in some one professional branch of art, in morning and afternoon classes. Over 500 persons study in the Woman’s Art School, and a still larger number in the night class." pg. 262
> 
> According to the Dictionary of Etiquette, published in 1904, it explains the different methods of mourning depending on the relationship to the deceased. A death of a parent, a woman was expected to be in deep mourning for six months, then enter half-mourning by adding shades of purple. pg. 205
> 
> The King's Handbook describes Delmonico's with "many of the belles of the 'four hundred' have made their debuts at Delmonico’s. The place is the social centre of the wealthy and exclusive portion of New York." pg. 212
> 
> A blogger wrote about Delmonico's menu, and that it "was entirely in French, without translation, and a la carte only. This presented a challenge to guests who knew no French and lacked the skill of ordering a perfectly composed meal. If a guest ordered badly he (only men were given this task) imagined he could hear his waiter snickering. And he might end up with a dinner of pickles and brandied peaches as happened to one hapless patron." 
> 
> I based off their meal from a 1895 menu from Delmonico's from the NYPL, and it is separated by hot and cold dishes instead of by course. I can see why people maybe couldn't figure it out. 
> 
> For some reason, Ao3 won't let me add links from my sources. Sorry. I'll try to add them later.
> 
> find me at <http://morganfir.tumblr.com/>


	5. Trains and Bicycles

The train shed of the Grand Central Depot was a testament to the industrial revolution. It stood ten stories high and encompassed an entire city block. Arched iron beams supported a domed glass roof that bathed the platforms in morning sun. The coal spewing engines of the trains would disconnect before they reached the station, letting the long chain of carriages just glide into the station without filling the shed with smoke. The depot was blaring with the bustle of chatty travelers and conductors calling for final boarding with their baritone voices.

Gold stood at the departure gate, turning the Sunday edition of the _New York World's News_ in his hands. As he flipped the page, he immediately spotted a small grainy photo of Belle, taken days after her father’s funeral in her mourning attire, under the society column. His heart stilled, startled by her likeness printed in such a gritty paper.

 _"THE MERRY BELLE - Only weeks after her father’s tragic passing, the ravishing debutante Miss French was spotted at Delmonico’s in half mourning. She spent her evening toasting with five-dollar bottles of champagne with a_ much _older gentlemen. Quite the celebratory dinner for a grieving daughter, but why shouldn’t she be? She is now two million dollars richer!"_

The New York World News wasn’t known for their reliable reporting, but there wasn’t one person in city that didn’t read Sunday's society supplement. It wasn't long until Belle found out she was the target of cruel gossip. 

With a frown, Gold folded the newspaper under his arm and searched the hustling crowd for the maid. When he heard the whistle of an incoming train, he spotted the familiar sight of curly red hair in the swarm of travelers. She was dressed in a patterned shirtwaist, a black skirt, and a straw hat adorned with ratty feathers. He liked her better in her maid's uniform that this mismatch of ready-to-wear garments picked up on a street corner. Zigzagging through the crowd, Zelena leaned towards one side as she hauled her heavy suitcase beside her.

As she approached him, her euphoric smile slowly disappeared. “Where’s your trunk?” Zelena inquired, her eyes searching his surroundings for the sight of his luggage.

“You’re a slow one, aren’t you?” Gold concluded with slight amusement.

Zelena gulped as her eyelids began to flutter, as if she was blinking away the opaque smoke that created his fallacy. 

“I thought…” 

“That I was going to run away with you?” He laughed, as if he heard a witty joke. “Now, why would I do a stupid thing like that?”

Zelena took a step back, wobbling on her heels as his words crushed her heart. He watched as her eyes brimmed with tears and her breath quicken by the blow of his words.

“Why,” she stopped when she heard her voice crack. She swallowed before licking her lips and tried again, “why are we here then?”

Gold withdrew an envelope from his breast pocket and held it out for her to take. She eyed it with suspicion, holding her chin up as she struggled not to cry.

“This is a ticket to Philadelphia and two-hundred dollars,” Gold coldly informed her.

Zelena’s eyes darted from the envelope to stare at his face, her sadness morphing to blinding fury. “Now why would you give me that?”

Gold took a step forward, meeting her indignation with his steely determination. “Because _you’re_ leaving New York, not me.”

“I don’t understand,” Zelena muttered through her quivering lips, her eyes searching for the man she that she’d welcomed inside of her. “I thought you loved me.”

Gold tilted his head aside, softening his eyes as he gazed upon her red cheeks and the slope of her narrow nose. A flicker of hope sparked in her eyes as she endured his stare.

“How could I ever love a scullery maid?” Gold sweetly asked, grinning at her pathetic nature. 

Hot saliva stuck his face before he felt the smart slap of her hand cross his cheek. He clenched his teeth, glancing away as he withdrew his pocket square and wiped her slobber off of his face.

“You’re the devil!” Zelena hissed, her Irish brogue thick as it carried her wrath. 

Ignoring the stinging pain engulfing in his cheek, he stuffed the soiled handkerchief into his pocket.

“You used me,” she surmised as she pieced together the truth. “Why else would you be asking me all those questions about that toffer and ordering me to keep her sweetheart away.”

Her words sent a rage through him hotter than her sharp slap. Grabbing her by the bicep, he dragged her to the nearest alcove and he shoved her against the wall. Alarmed by his sudden burst of anger, she dropped her suitcase at her side with a thump. The clasps popped and piles of her neatly folded clothes rolled onto the ground.

“Don’t you ever call her that again,” he darkly warned.

“You’re hurting me,” Zelena cried as she tried to wiggle her arm from his tight grasp. “Let go of me or I’ll scream!”

Gold sneered. “And who’s going to save you? For all they know, I’m giving my wife a good scolding.”

Zelena threw her weight to her side in preparation of wielding another hard slap, but Gold caught her by the wrist before it even touched his face. The anger left her face as she stared at his hand clenching her wrist. She whined as tears rolled down her flushed cheeks and let her hand go limp in his viselike grip.

“You used me,” she whimpered, desolate. 

Gold rolled his eyes. “We used each other.”

“I never used you!” Zelena contended, sniffling back the snot that was leaking from her nose.

“Oh, yes you did,” Gold insisted. “You need a good fuck and I need information, that’s called commerce.”

“Ah,” Zelena crooned as realization flooded her face. “So you can fuck the scullery maid, but you could never love her. Well, let me tell you something,” she hissed as she leaned forward. “You might dress in your fine clothes, puttin’ on airs because you get invited through the front door, but you and I both know that no amount of that fancy perfumed soap of yours can wash away your sin.”

“No, it can’t,” he calmly agreed without offense. 

Gold released her arms and took a step back. She huffed as she lowered her arms to her sides and pushed her back off the wall. 

“I’m giving you a chance at life out of service,” he told her, holding the puckered envelope in his grasp. “Take it.”

Zelena jutted out her chin as she refused to look at his hand. He didn’t have time for her to pretend that she had morals. He’d seen Zelena’s cruelty, heard the green snake of envy slitter out of her lips, and knew that she wasn’t without sin herself. 

“If you don’t take it, I will kill you,” Gold assured her, growing irritated at her resistance.

Zelena turned pale. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would,” he told her with an enthusiastic nod of his head. “You’d just be another paddy who drank so much she fell into the East River. Happens _all_ the time.”

A breath escaped from Zelena’s parted lips and she forced herself to look away. “And why haven’t you?” She questioned as she hugged herself, as that would protect her his villainy.

“Because you’re just collateral damage,” he simply answered, thrusting out the envelope to take. “Now don’t be a fool and take the bloody envelope.”

“PHILADELPHIA, NOW BOARDING!” A man bellowed into a speaking trumpet. 

Gold glanced in the corner of his eye to see a crowd of passengers scatter towards the platform. Zelena needed to be another nameless face in the crowd, seeking out a new life in the city of brotherly love. He really wasn’t in the mood for murder, and he had an engagement to get to.

“Take it, Zelena,” he insisted, nearly throwing the envelope at her.

Zelena bent down, stuffing her clothes into her suitcase before snapping it closed.

“I came to America on my own, and I got out of the tenements without anyone helpin’ me,” she snapped. “I don’t need your blood money.”

“There’s no such thing,” Gold replied. “There isn’t a dollar in this city that doesn’t have a little blood on it.”

Zelena lifted her suitcase from the ground and took a step out of the shadows of the alcove. Gold watched as she took three steps before the train before she abruptly stopped. Spinning on her heel, she marched back towards Gold, keeping her eyes on the ground, and snatched the envelope from his hands. 

Not leaving anything to chance, he watched her board in the second-class carriage car. He remained on the platform until the train rolled down the tracks, disappearing into clouds of coal dust.

 

~*~

 

Belle looked like she was going on a shooting party rather than an afternoon promenade in the park. She was dressed in a matching tweed suit comprised of a tailored jacket with leg o' mutton sleeves, a gored skirt with a raised hem to reveal her black leather boots, and a boater hat pinned over her perfectly coiffed hair. And instead of a parasol, Belle clutched the handlebars of a bicycle.

“Do you like it?” Belle said as she wheeled it aside so he could examine the new invention. It was made out black metal frame with a seat padded with cotton wool and two white rubber tires. “Dr. Baker says I should exercise more.”

“And you chose cycling?” Gold asked, curious.

“My classmate at the Cooper Union has one. She rides hers all around the city! She even told me there is a wheelman, or should I say wheelwoman club now,” she said, beaming with excitement. “So, I thought I’d go out and buy one.” 

Maurice was a spendthrift and probably hadn’t given Belle more than a few cents to spend on penny candy when they went out. Admiring her pure giddiness, he was suddenly struck with the realization that this was her first, real purchase.

“I don’t think I’ve ever spent that much money before,” she admitted, growing ashamed. “It was seventy-five dollars.”

That was quite a lot of money for basically two tires and a few bars of steel, but if it made her happy, then he’d buy her a stable full of boneshakers.

“You know you can purchase anything you like,” he informed her, slightly amused at her incredulity. “You only need to ask me if you do not have the funds in your account.”

“No,” Belle replied, stroking the metal bars with appreciation. “I liked saving my weekly stipend for it. I admit the anticipation made it all the sweeter.”

Gold gulped, perceiving a hidden meaning of her words. Was she…was she flirting with him? If he didn’t move, he’d stand there all day and argue with himself if she was or was not. With a deep breath, he withdrew the copy of the _New York World's News_ from under his arm. Better coming from him than a lady at the Cooper Union. 

“I wanted to tell you before you saw it,” Gold explained, holding out the paper for her to take.

Propping the bicycle against her leg, she took the paper and began scanning the society column. He expected her to cry, to march around the house in a furious tirade, but instead a smile grew on her rouged lips.

“And?” Belle inquired, tearing her eyes away from the paper.

Gold blinked. “You’re not upset?” 

“Hardly,” she dryly replied as she handed him back the rag. “It isn’t the first time Sidney Glass has featured me in his column. I rather expected it, coming out of mourning so earlier. But mother would say to me ‘people will always talk, might as well give them something to talk about.’”

Gold drew the newspaper from her outreached hand and examined her outfit. “And now you’re completely out of mourning.”

Belle shrugged. “I don’t like purple, never have,” she plainly said as she placed her hands on the handlebars.

Gold took a step forward and gestured to the bicycle. “Are you going to give me a demonstration?”

Belle face light up with delight. Calling a footman, Belle instructed him to carry the heavy contraption down the steep stoop. Gold followed Belle across the lazy, city street into the beautifully landscaped Riverside Park. It resembled an English garden rather than public green, with honey-locusts lining paved walkways that twisted around beautifully landscaped pastures. The park was narrow enough to spot the Hudson River and the train tracks that ran up the border, heading northbound, at the park's edge. 

“I suppose the article hasn’t gone over well with ladies over at the Temperance Union,” Belle mentioned as the passed the entry gate.

“I suppose it wouldn’t.” Gold stifled his laugh. “But you could always lie and say that it was just factious rubbish.”

“Actually, Sara is taking me to see Dr. Anna Howard Shaw speak next week. I heard that she’s quite the brilliant orator,” Belle shared, slightly timid.

“You grew bored with temperance, so now you move onto women’s suffrage?” Gold inquired.

“You said you weren’t opposed,” Belle strongly protested.

“I’m not.” Gold held his hand over his chest. “Forgive me, I was only teasing you.”

Her visible offense immediately dissipated.

“So, it’s _Sara_ ,” he concluded, remembering his conversation with the venerable doctor in the foyer of her home only a week ago.

“I admire her,” Belle confessed, her eyes drawn to the glittering waves of the Hudson River at the park's edge. 

“It’s hard not to,” Gold agreed with a nod. Dr. Baker was a paragon of her sex, a strong and capable doctor with the unrelenting drive to help the city’s numerous poor and disadvantage.

“Though, I suspect she’s hoping that my attendance will attract more uptown ladies to the movement,” Belle surmised with a light laugh as she turns the handlebars of her bicycle as they walk around a bend. “Not that I mind her ulterior motives, I would do the same if I was in her position.”

She had a keen mind if she willingly accepted that the world lacked the idealism born from youth and inexperience.

“You wouldn’t be the first. Mrs. William Vanderbilt has been generously known to bail out picketers,” he shared, gripping his cane tighter as his knee began to ache. “Classes at the Cooper Union, drinking champagne, going to meetings at the NAWSA, riding bicycles…” Gold grinned, glancing over his shoulder as he saw that she wasn’t some fashionable Gibson Girl, but an intriguing woman pushing against the status-quo. “You’re turning into quite the ‘New Woman.”

Belle rocked her head side to side as she grinned in mischief. “I haven’t started smoking yet.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Gold replied with a light chuckle.

Belle slowed her pace when a middle-aged couple began to walk towards them. They kept their eyes forward, not even glancing at Belle as they passed.

“Those are the Potts,” Belle mentioned in a quiet voice. “I went to school with their daughter Helen.”

He’d met Belle after Colette’s passing, around the time her father pulled her out of school with the promise of travel. Except, they never traveled anywhere.

“Comstock, was it?” Gold inquired, trying to remember her alma mater. He dipped his cold hand into his coat pocket for warmth, realizing he’d forgotten his gloves that morning.

“Comstock School for Exceptionally Fine Ladies. It was the only finishing school on the East Side that accepted _new money_ ,” Belle glanced behind her shoulder to watch them walk away. “I am surprised to see them out, so soon after…you know.” 

“Know what?” Gold asked, oblivious to the current round of gossip circulating among the West Siders.

“Don’t you skim more than the society column than just for my name?” Belle questioned with slight amusement, then she leaned forward as if she was going to share a scandalous secret. “Helen was murdered by her husband.”

Gold narrowed his eyes. “Murdered?”

“Yes,” Belle answered with wide eyes. “Yet, no one knew she had a husband! She secretly married some medical student from Columbia. When Mrs. Potts wanted to make it official, the philander killed Helen by making her headache pills laced with strychnine! It was in the _World_  for weeks!”

Gold looked away, the story hitting too close for comfort. “Yes, that is quite shocking,” he said without emotion.

“He was executed a few weeks ago,” Belle added, but immediately looked uncomfortable as her words dampened their jovial mood. “I’m sorry, that was quite morbid.”

Gold let out a dismal sigh. “There’s a bit of darkness in all of us, Miss French. We just show our evil in different ways.”

Belle looked thoughtful. “I suppose you’re right,” she said, raising her eyebrows to consider his outlook. “And what do you suppose my evil is?”

Gold abruptly stopped. Belle slowed down, twisting her torso to face him as she held her bike upright by the handlebars.

“No,” he said, shaking his head as he stared down at the youthful beauty beside him. “You’re nothing but good.” 

Belle licked her lips, her breath quickening as she stared into his eyes. “Are you sure about that, Mr. Gold?”

Knowing that there wasn’t a more undeniable truth than her benevolent heart, he removed the hand from his pocket and cupped her cold face with his warm hand. Her lips parted, startled by his touch, but didn’t pull away.

“Yes,” Gold whispered with unwavering certainty.

To his surprise, Belle leaned her cheek into his touch. Yes, he finally concluded, she was flirting with him earlier. She couldn't make it anymore clearer. Unable to control his growing desire, he removed his hand from soft face and dropped it at his side. It tingled from the warmth of her skin. 

“Now, a demonstration?” He asked, gesturing towards the bicycle.

Continuing on their path, they arrived in front of General Grant’s tomb. It was a classical mausoleum, built from granite and limestone, with six Doric pillars above a steep set of stairs and topped with conical roofed drum, lined with an Ionic colonnade. Newly built, the tomb was one of the most impressive structures in the city. Below the tomb was a spacious square, perfect for riding a bicycle. As they entered, Gold spotted two other ladies zipping around on their velocipedes. They wore outfits similar to Belle's, but instead of shortened skirts they sported voluminous bloomers made from tweed.

“I haven’t gotten the complete hang of it yet,” Belle confessed as she lifted her leg over the middle frame. His heart skipped a beat when he caught a quick glimpse her petticoats as she straddled the bicycle.

Gold took a step back, leaning his weight on his cane with both of his hands. Bearing the cold winds carried by the Hudson River, he watched with a look of admiration as Belle pushed the pedal with the tip of her foot and sailed off. She had a look of anxiety when she began to wobble, but quickly pivoted the handlebars to regain her balance. A relieved laugh escaped her lips as she joined the other two ladies in their figure-eights.

Gold felt almost prideful as he watched Belle effortless ride circles around the square. She looked so vibrant, so free. He grew nostalgic for a time in his life where he felt the same. 

That blissful moment was short lived when a mighty blow landed across his chin. Bones in his neck cracked as his head violently whipped to the side. Another punch colliding with his lower back and he staggered back, suddenly breathless. He lost his balance, toppling over his cane and landing on his good side with a thump.

Strong hands hunted through his coat pockets before he felt the weight of his wallet removed from his person. In a moment, his attacker was gone, and he was several dollars poorer. 

His ears rung when he heard the chorus of high-pitch shrieking.

“Mr. Gold!” Belle shouted, her quaking voice cutting through the daze clouding his joggled mind. He heard the crunch of gravel under her shoes before he saw her lovely face staring down in panic.

The next few moments were a blur. He began to regain his senses when abled arms hauled his limp body from the ground and carried him across the street towards the Riverside Park estate.

“We have to bring him to the hospital!” A man bellowed. 

“No…no hospital,” Gold groaned. 

“Mr. Gold! Please, you’re badly injured!” Belle insisted beside him, her voice filled with worry.

“Dr…Baker,” he muttered before his his tongue ceased to work.

When he was dragged inside of Belle’s house, she shouted for the servants to come to his aid. Two of her strongest footman towed him upstairs and eased him into the bed of one of her many guestrooms. He didn't know what happened to the strangers that helped him. He didn't care. All he cared about was to cease the ringing in his ears.

“Jefferson, call for Dr. Baker!” Belle quickly ordered as she rushed into the room. “If you can’t get a hold of her, take the carriage and fetch her.” 

“Should I call the police, miss?” Her lady's maid inquired. What was her name? Red? No, Ruby. Her name was Ruby.

“No!” Gold urged before wincing as his headache intensified.

“You’ve been cruelly beaten and robbed!” Belle fumed as she crossed the room to approach his bedside. “We need to call the police.”

He pressed his hand against his side, nursing the bruise that was developing under his skin. “So we can make next Sunday’s paper?” He argued, gaining back his wits as the pain brought clarity to the confusing incident.

“You can’t be serious!” Belle proclaimed, sliding beside him on the bed.

Opening his eyes, he spotted that her boater hat was out of place and locks of hair escaped from her bun to frame her sweaty face. Droplets of blood stained the lapel of her jacket and dirt caked the fine weave of her skirt. However, she could care less about her untidy appearance. Her blue eyes were all for him. It was almost worth the pain to see her so concerned for him.

“Promise me, no police,” he insisted, rolling his head back and forth on the pillow as he felt his temperature rising.

“Alright!” Belle acquiesced, frustrated by his refusal to see reason. A maid rushed into the room with a bottle of iodine, bandages, and a bowl filled with a block of ice. Belle leaned over, catching his restless face with her hands, and examined his forehead with a careful eyes. He must have cut it when he fell down, he figured, that's where the blood on her lapel came from.

“You don’t need stitches,” Belle stated before she turned away to grab the iodine soaked rag from her maid. With a steady hand, she began cleaning the wound. He didn’t feel the cut until he felt the cloth brush against his temple. He would bear another punch to his gut than the swipes of an iodine-soaked rag to his wound.

“You would know this how?” Gold said through gritted teeth as his wound felt on fire.

“Because it’s only a scratch,” she told him before she removed the rag, marred with dirt and blood. “It already stopped bleeding.”

Through it all, Belle remained calm and focused. She morphed into the perfect nurse as she tended his wounds and tried to make him more comfortable until Dr. Baker arrived. It was only when she leaned in to unfasten his starched collar that he stilled her hands.

“Don’t,” he said, holding the collar closed.

Belle frowned. “I’m just trying to make you more comfortable.”

“Just don’t,” he ordered before looking away, unable to withstand her questioning eyes.

Belle slowly removed her hands from his throat. “I’m sorry,” she quickly said, sounding like a child after getting her knuckles whacked with a ruler. 

Gold remained silent, listening to Belle’s heavy breathing as the maid began to chop the ice block. 

“Would you at least let me press the ice against your side?” Belle eagerly asked as she leaned forward to show him the ice pack. With a sigh, he pulled back his vest, but didn’t unbutton his shirt. 

“It’ll ruin your clothes,” Belle said.

“It’s just water,” he told her, gruff. 

With a relenting sigh, she leaned in a pressed the cold compress to his aching side. It took a moment for the cold to seep through the fabric and numb his aching muscles.

“Ruby, where’s Zelena?” Belle asked, irritated. “She's better at first aid than me.”

Gold closed his eyes, trying to ignore their loud voices as his head began to throb. The last thing he wanted to think about was that stupid maid.

“She’s not here, miss,” Ruby replied.

“What do you mean she’s not here?” Belle hotly demanded.

“She’s gone,” she meekly replied.

“Gone?” Belle questioned, her hand faltering and making Gold wince. “Where?”

“I don’t know, miss,” the girl told her. “She wasn’t in her room this morning and all her things are missing. We think she just packed up and left.”

“Is this really the time?” Gold groaned as his head began to feel like an anvil enduring a blacksmith’s hammer. “My head is killing me!” He professed, lifting his hand to cradle his head.

“Ruby, lower the blinds!” Belle briskly ordered. 

He heard the sound of metal rings sliding across a curtain rod before the room went dark. Ruby’s heels clicked against the hardwood floor as she crossed the room to snap on the light switch. The only light was the Tiffany lamp at his bedside, a ring of dragonflies made from gem-like stained glass over a tungsten bulb.

“There,” Belle softly said, scooting closer to brush back the strands, thick with pomade, from his brow. The touch was soothing, easing the tension in his clenching muscles. “Better?”

Gold melted into the bed, milking the moment for all it was worth. “Yes.”

“Don’t worry,” Belle whispered, stroking his forehead with the pad of her thumb. “I’ll take good care of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before y’all yell at me, I promise there is a reason why he let Zelena go. But Gold is a kinda private person, he will tell you when the time is right.
> 
> **Historical Notes**
> 
> Here's a really great blog article describing Grand Central Depot before it was torn down and rebuilt as Grand Central Station. source: http://goo.gl/hyUbis
> 
> The _New York World’s News_ was considered the king of yellow journalism, relying on exaggerations and sensational headlines to sell papers. In _Displaying Women: Spectacles of Leisure in Edith Wharton’s New York_ , newspapers would include a supplement specifically on the topic of New York society and even “the society column of the smallest country newspapers now daily gives reports concerning [the four hundred]: their balls, engagements, yachts, gowns and divorced.” It was basically the tabloid of it’s time and NY’s society was "popularly disliked and jeered at.” pg. 152 
> 
> Gold talks about how he saw Belle as a Gibson Girl in the last chapter. The "Gibson Girl," named after Charles Dana GIbson’s drawings. She was fashionable, upper-class, sporty, flirty and yet didn't believe in suffrage. Men found her likeable because she didn’t push socio-political change. However, the "New Woman" was all for pushing boundaries, wearing suits, smoking with the men, wlw relationships, and suffrage. 
> 
> In 1888, medical student Carlyle Harris met Helen Potts at a dance hall and secretly married her months later. Helen became pregnant around the time Harris found another lover. After Harris came performed an abortion, Helen told her mother all about their secret marriage. Mrs. Potts basically hauled Harris' ass to the city hall to prove it and then kept bugging Harris for a REAL wedding. He wrote a note to her basically saying "yeah I'll do it if nothing else happens" and the SAME day runs off to the pharmacy for poisoned pills. Harris gave them to Helen to ease a headache and she sadly died. Mrs. Potts didn't want a scandal and said Helen had a heart condition, so no autopsy was done. It was only after Helen was buried a _New York World_ reporter found the whole thing fishy after Harris refused to have Helen buried under his name. Thousands of people came to see Helen's body exhumed. The ME confirmed it was poisoning and Harris was indicted. All of this was exposed in Harris' trial and he was found guilty and sentenced to death. It was known as "The Murder by the Six Capsules" and sounds like a real penny dreadful. source: http://goo.gl/jAVnjB
> 
> Grant’s Tomb is still in Riverside Park. When it was built in 1897, it was one of the most popular tourist attractions in New York. There isn’t a place where you can ride bicycles, so lets chalk that up to creative license. 
> 
> In 1896, Susan B. Anthony told the Nellie Bly (who also worked for the _New York World_!) that bicycling had “done more to emancipate women than anything else in the world.” So I couldn’t write a Victorian story and _not_ giving Belle a bicycle! It is _the_ invention that helped liberate the Victorian woman. It was an acceptable form of exercise, women could ride their bikes without a chaperone, and it sparked another era of dress reform. This beautifully sourced blog article goes into great detail of the Victorian woman and her bicycle. source: http://goo.gl/40oPYB
> 
> find me at <http://morganfir.tumblr.com/>


	6. Let Me Call You Sweetheart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: this chapter has a discussion about dubious-consented sex and sexual violence.**

His face looked as if he’d been in some bowery brawl. He has a lump on the head, a gash to his temple, a swollen lip, a nasty bruise on his side that was shades of green, yellow, purple, and black.

There was a soft rap of knuckles at the door.

“Come in,” he beckoned as dropped the hand mirror on the nightstand.

He deeply inhaled when he caught the sight of Belle first thing in the morning. She was wearing a blue tea gown made from silk brocade and trimmed with chiffon ruffles. Her hair wasn’t styled, instead pulled back at the base of her neck with a tortoiseshell clip. He found it hard to breathe when he imagined waking up to such a vision every morning.

The moment was ruined when David followed behind her, towing a heavy suitcase at his side. As much as he considered David a friend, almost a son, it definitely wasn't a face wanted to see first thing in the morning.

“Good morning,” Belle said, her voice slightly hoarse from the early hours. “David was kind enough to travel uptown to bring you some of your things.”

“I’m fine,” Gold gruffly replied, pushing himself up on the bed to receive her without looking like an invalid. “I should really return to my flat.” 

“Nonsense,” Belle insisted. “Dr. Baker prescribed cold compresses and a week of convalescing, and I intend on making sure you follow her strict orders.”

“And I’m forever grateful,” he answered, bearing the pain when he stretched his swollen lip in a kind smile.

"I just can't believe this happened, boss!" David dramatically declared.

Gold narrowed his eyes into slits.

"In Riverside Park no less!" Belle exclaimed, placing a hand over her chest in awe. "This is suppose to be a safe neighborhood."

"Terrible, just terrible," David agreed, shaking his head in disbelief. "And you didn't get a look at robber?"

"He was tallish man, but he wore a handkerchief over half his face and a bowler low on his head," she replied, ashamed for not knowing more. "It happened so fast, I couldn't get a better look."

"Bastard!" David cursed, then immediately looked bashful. "Pardon me, miss. I'm not use to such fine company."

“We're all a little emotional," Belle said, forgiving him for his vulgarity. "I’ll tell the kitchen we require a third place setting."

“That’s very kind of you, miss,” he said before flashing one of his charming grins. He could knock the socks off a girl with such a look. “But I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to join you. My wife and I are sitting for a picture this afternoon.”

“That sounds lovely,” Belle complimented. “I’m arranging a Christmas celebration, perhaps you and your wife can show it to me then? I’d love to see it.” 

David lit up with excitement. “A Christmas party! The misses would sure love that!”

“I’ll make sure to receive your address from Mr. Gold for when I send the invitations,” she said, thrilled at inviting her first guests. "I'll leave you to discuss business."

As she walked towards door, Belle flashed a caring look at her patient. It wasn’t pitiful, nor was it neighborly. It was how a woman looked at her sweetheart when she saw him in pain. His stomach did a little flip. It was a strange, giddy feeling he hadn’t felt in a very long time. Was this what it felt like to be loved? Could such a youngish, innocent girl spark such a feeling in his rusty heart?

Shooting him one last lingering look, Belle shut the door behind her. When Gold heard her footsteps descending the stairs, he dropped his smile and glared at David.

"You think you're a funny lad?" 

David shrugged. "Couldn't resist."

“And did you have to punch so hard?” Gold scolded, wincing as he adjusted the pillow behind his aching head.

David pointed his finger at him. “You told me to make it look believable! You said you could handle pain.”

“I told you it should only look like it’s bad, not give me a damn concussion!” Gold said, a little louder than he intended. He pressed his lips together, cooling his nerves. “At least you hit the right side.”

David dropped the suitcase on the floor before he removed a billfold from his trouser pocket. “Your wallet,” he said as he leaned forward to hand it to him. 

Gold took it, fanned back the leather, and thumbed the edges as he silently counted. “There’s ten dollars missing. We agreed to five.”

David ran his thumb over the scar on his lip, looking very much like the gangster. “Well,” he shrugged. “I added another five to my bill for the six blocks I had to run after some ritzy bastard decided to chase after me.” 

“From what I remember, you used to love the chase,” Gold said as he folded close his wallet and tossed it by his suitcase to hide from Belle's eyes.

“I gotta be more careful now sir, can’t be getting involved with the coppers for petty shit.” David eyes were sparkling and his grin was too large for just a ten-dollar raise. “Mary’s got a little one on the way.”

A burst of pride exploded in his chest. “You sly bastard!” Gold exclaimed with an elated laugh, no wonder he was smiling like a fool. “Congratulations!”

David nodded, looking thrilled and terrified at the same time.

“Ah, maybe your days as a bachelor are almost to an end? I’m mean, this is bloody brilliant,” he insisted before pointing his thumb over his shoulder. “Did you see the look on her face when she left? That's a sure thing if I ever saw one.”

Gold wasn’t entirely sure, but he would know Belle’s true feelings by the time he recovered. This scheme of his would be the last one he’d ever have to orchestrate. When he rose from his sickbed, he would let love to guide the compass of her heart. 

“Well, I leave you to _convalesce_ ,” David announced, his voice thick with sarcasm, and showed himself out.

When David left, Gold immediately felt sick, not from his injuries, but from nervousness. His hands were shaking when he reached down to pluck his suitcase from the floor and drop it beside him on the bed. His eyes fixed on the oil painting hanging over the fireplace as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt. He didn’t stop when he heard the soft patter of feet and the clinking of porcelain in the hallway. Instead, Gold drew back the crisp fabric of his shirt from his shoulders.

There was a knock on the door before he heard the click of the doorknob turning. He heard the sharp intake of breath and a clatter of porcelain made from a sudden jolt.

He felt like he’d endured another of David’s punches as he gathered the courage to look up. Belle was frozen at the doorway, gripping the tray firmly in her hands as her eyes danced along his grotesque flesh. The longer she stared, the wider her mouth opened in shock. 

“Mr. Gold!” Belle exclaimed before she spun to face the wall. “I’m sorry, I should have waited after I knocked!”

“Belle,” he whispered as he removed his arms from his sleeves. “I want you to see.”

In a business like manner, Belle lowered the tray on a nearby table before she slowly turned around to face him. Gold watched the tendons in her neck tense as her eyes drifted from his face and over his naked flesh. She shook her head, unable to comprehend how a living man could become so scarred.

Gold dropped his chin and focused on the stitches in the quilt rather than the feeling of her eyes ogling his torso. “Am I that disgusting?”

“No!” Belle cried before he heard the rustle of her gown. He felt the mattress dip before he caught a whiff of her lavender perfume in the air. “I wouldn’t ever think such a thing!”

“My body sickens you, I can tell,” he stated, emotionless.

“I’m sickened by the terrible accident that has done this to you,” Belle hotly claimed, hearing the truth in her words. He wished so much her assumption was correct, but she was so wrong. 

“There was no accident,” he stated, finally lifting his eyes from the bedspread to look upon her face. She was staring into his eyes, not even stealing glances at the monstrous scars covering nearly almost all of his flesh.

She let out a cry. “The poorhouse?”

Gold pursed his lips, remembering the whack of the cane on his bottom, but it only left bruises and never scars.

“You’ve never asked me how I’ve raised myself from the gutters of Five Points to be running at one of the best law firms in the city,” Gold coldly informed her.

Belle blinked, surprised at his unfriendly tone. “Alright, how?” 

Gold shifted on the bed, drawing his legs over the edge so they sat side by side. He kept his torso bare, allowing her to look upon ever inch of his skin. She needed to learn everything, _almost_ everything, before their unofficial courtship turned into something more.

“I worked in one of your father’s factories for a year. I was a carder. Do you know what that is?” Gold asked, turning his head to see her nodding with fear in her eyes. “I was working by the machine when it malfunctioned. It sucked up my leg between the drums, and snapped my femur like a twig. It was the most painful thing I ever felt, just thousands of little needles puncturing your skin. It felt like fire. It hurts so much you just want to saw off the leg yourself just to stop the pain.”

Leaning forward, Gold drew up his pant leg over his knee. He refused to look at Belle, unable to bear the look of terror that she must have wore on her beautiful face by viewing his twisted limb.

“My Lord,” she blasphemed, clearly horrified at the sight of his mangled leg.

Gold dropped his pant leg, refusing her take her pity. She suffered a different cruelness, but suffered her father’s evil all the same.

“You father was less than kind when he realized he’d have to replace the drum. He fired me without pay, bloody and crippled. I had no one to turn to, not a charity to help me, no family left alive to take me in. I lived on the streets, eating out horse troughs and sleeping in pig sties to keep warm,” he told her, remembering the sickening things he ate just so he could fill in his aching stomach. “You have to understand, Belle, that I was desperate.” 

“Of course,” she said without judgment, but he wasn’t sure that compassion would last for much longer.

“I…” he hesitated, growing terrified at the truth he had so skillfully hidden in his own mind. “I sold myself.”

“Sold yourself?” Belle asked, confused. It only took a moment for his words to sink into her sheltered mind. “ _Oh_.”

“I was hungry and cold, something like that changes a man. It makes you do things you never thought you’d do,” he explained, needing for her to understand that he never wanted any of it. “It wasn’t the life I dreamed about as lad back in Scotland. That wasn’t why I came over here.” 

“You’d sold…yourself…to women,” Belle stumbled over her words, clearly too shocked to process what a ridiculous idea she’d conjured.

Gold scoffed. “You think a woman would want me?”

For a few minutes, the only sound he heard was the ticking of the clock upon the mantel and his heart racing under his scarred chest. 

“Men paid you to be with them,” Belle finally spoke.

“They came downtown from their posh houses, needing something they couldn’t get from their wives,” Gold told her, refusing to sugarcoat the truth. She needed to know every detail of his sinful past. “For a dollar, I did whatever they told me to. Then, one day, this man comes by in the finest carriage I ever saw. Says he needs some company for the night, and if I made him happy he’ll pay me five dollars.”  

Gold whistled, remembering the years when five dollars seemed like a fortune to him. “Your father paid a dollar a week, and there was this man offering a month’s wage for a night of work. I didn’t even think. I just got into his carriage.”

His blood ran cold at the memory of that fateful night. What followed was two years of merciless cruelty that irrevocably altered him. Not even Belle’s sweet love could ever change him back to the young, kind lad he used to be. 

“The first night, it was only a few cuts,” Gold said, raising his arm to show the perfect lines left behind by his shaving blade. “Then I realized that he grew pleasure out of hurting me,” he said. Suddenly, he shook his head when he realized that word wasn’t a worthy description for the pain he endured. “Torturing me,” he corrected in a dark voice.

Belle whimpered. “That man did this to you?”

Gold flinched as her fingertip began to trace scar above his right collarbone. It was a perfect circle, not larger than a nickel. Slowly, he relaxed, letting her discover how his body felt under her kind, yet timid touch.

“He’d use me as an ashtray,” he told her, raising his arm to show her the rest of the scars left by his cigars.

“That’s not all,” she whispered, her fingers tracing the uneven patch of raised skin where his nipple should have been. The skin over his right breast was hard and the color of copper. Sadly, he barely felt her touch there.

“I don’t think I have to strength to explain all my scars,” he truthfully told her. He couldn't go back there, he wouldn't. Not even for her. “Please don’t ask me to.”

“Couldn’t you have run away? Went the police?” Belle insisted in a furor.

“You don’t get it,” he spat out as the humiliation was becoming unbearable. “I _let_ him do those things to me.” 

Gold’s head snapped over his shoulder and saw Belle’s cheeks wet with tears. He searched her face, desperate to see the look of revulsion in her eyes, but found nothing but compassion. For a moment, he thought it was a farce. Never in his life had he earned such a mercy.

Belle lifted her chin, her innocence cracking away by the blow of his terrible truths.

“For the money,” she understood.

“Yes,” he confessed, looking down at the silk bow that tied her gown closed. It was a reminder of the different worlds they belonged to, her with her silk and him with his scars. A beauty and a beast. “When it was over, I had enough to pay for law school.”

Both of them were breathing heavily as they endured the aftermath of his confession. Instead of waiting until the wedding, he needed to show her the body that she would seek pleasure from. He couldn’t ruin such a beautiful night with tales of his misfortune and woe. He couldn't bare to wed a woman that would find him repellent, body or soul. If Belle could not love him, he'd walk away now and swear to be her devoted and chaste companion for life, and would not blame her for it. 

“I needed to tell you,” he explained as he hopelessly stared into her bright, blue eyes. “Are you angry with me?”

“No,” Belle calmly answered as dried her wet cheeks with the back of her hand. “I’m angry with my father for being so cruel to when it was _his_ machine that hurt you. I’m sickened by the men who took advantage of you. I wish I could hold you and take all your pain away.”

By the end, Belle’s chest was heaving as she loudly sobbed. Gold felt wretched as the tears fell faster than she could wipe them away.

“Don’t waste you tears on me, I’m not worth them,” he desperately pleaded.

Belle laughed, but it was full of pain and heartache. “Why do you keep giving me reasons to love you more?”

A strangled cry escaped from Gold’s throat.  _Love, love, love._ Her words utterly shattered him, and for the first time in years, he cried. Gold turned away, hiding his face with his hands, too embarrassed by the fracture in his steely armor to show her such a sign of weakness.

“Please,” Belle begged as she mimicked his sign of affection he’d showered her a day before by cupping his cheek with her hand. It was wet by her tears, but soft and tender like her heart. “You’ve taken such good care of me. Let me take care of you?”

Oh, how he longed for her to take care of him! Gold answered with a desperate nod. Belle whimpered as she threw her hands over his bare, scarred shoulders. She showered him with kisses, drying the tears with her soft lips, which made him cry harder. He wrapped his arms around her small frame and dragged her to sit on his lap. He ached all over, but he couldn’t let such a glorious moment slip away. 

“You’re the reason I wake up in the morning,” he confessed as her lips drank his kisses. “When I look at you, I’m convinced that there’s good in this world,” he proclaimed as his restless hands stroked her back. “You make me think a pathetic lad from the poorhouse could ever deserve anything so grand as you.”

By the time he had finished his heartfelt declaration, she had kissed every patch of skin on his face. He pushed his fingers through her hair and directed her lips onto his. She went willingly, obeying his silent command. Belle moaned as he locked her in a searing kiss. If his swollen lip wasn’t hurting before, it would certainly hurt after their embrace.

Their kiss was nothing but pressure as he pressed his lips back and forth over her mouth, terrified that his unusual luck would run out and she would flee from his arms. It was only when she wrapped her arms around his neck that he realized that she was there to stay. He softened the kiss, plucking and stroking her lips until her limbs fell limp. She was so warm, so soft. It took everything not to roll her over on the bed and draw back the ribbons of her gown.

Pulling back, he tried to say her name but was muffled by her urgent kisses. He tried to push her away, but he almost fell backwards when she wouldn’t relent. Gold imagined her enthusiasm akin to an energetic puppy, licking their master’s face after coming home from the office. She was restless, running her yearning hands up and down his torso as she slathered messy kisses upon his mouth. 

He yanked his head aside. “Belle—” he was interrupted with a kiss, “as much—” another kiss, “as I want you—” then another, “you have to—” and another, "stop."

Gold had enough. He grabbed her hands firmly enough to break whatever insatiable madness she was struck with. 

“You have to stop,” he repeated, licking the taste of her from his lips.

Belle looked crestfallen as she slid off of his lap. He was horrified as he watched her lick her lips and stare at him with lustful eyes. He never expected a woman of her polite upbringing would be so forward! When he knew she wasn't going to pounce on him, he softened his hold around her wrists and drew them together so he could cradle them in his hands.

“We don’t have to wait, you know,” Belle informed him, overly eager to return to their activities. “Dr. Baker taught me about family planning.”

Gold couldn’t stop the nervous laugh that escaped his lips. Sara probably wasted no time in explaining French letters, womb veils, and other contraceptives as soon as she realized that Gold had intentions for her.

“What?” Belle insisted, looking annoyed. “Are you going to turn me in to Comstock and his ridiculous moral crusaders?”

“I’m just experiencing a bit of whiplash, that’s all,” he said. He unfolded his hands to play with the frilled edge of her sleeves. “Temperance warrior to emancipated suffragette.”

She looked bashful under his scrutiny. “I’m figuring out my place. Please don’t be upset with Sara for educating me.”

“I’m not,” he promised, drawing up her sleeve to plant a sincere kiss on her arm as proof. “I’m glad you have someone to turn to when you can’t come to me.”

Belle shifted closer to him on the bed. “Then why not? There’s no one here to stop us.”

“Because,” he began, flashing a bashful smile as he brushed back a strand of hair from her face. “I want to court you.”

“Court me?” Belle said, tickled.

“I wasn’t able to court a girl when I was young,” Gold confessed. “I’d like to court you, the way I would have done if I met you when I was younger. I know it sounds foolish and antiquated, but it would mean so much to me if I could—”

Belle silenced him with a finger on his lips, though the words kept rattling off in his buzzing mind. Removing her finger, she leaned forward to rest her head upon his shoulder. There was nothing in her touch to stroke the fires of passion. It was only tender and sweet, like Belle.

“Let me call you sweetheart?” Belle whispered as she nuzzled the scarred skin covering his neck. 

Gold cradled her against his bruised side while he stroked her hairline with his fingertips. “Alright, sweetheart,” he called her before leaning forward a planting a chaste kiss to her temple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you guessed it, Gold paid someone *cough*David*cough* to beat him up so he could land in Belle's house. 
> 
> Big reveal this chapter, this was Gold's "despicable things" he talks about in chapter two. I spent a lot of time considering his past and it wasn't chosen lightly. I do think the decisions he made, were forced to make, or dubiously consented to made him Mr. Gold. It's why he sees sex as business, so he can sleeping with Zelena for information and turn that part of his brain off. Maybe why he idolizes Belle's virginity, yet is all about corrupting her. Maybe why he cries in this chapter, I could imagine feeling a loving, sexual touch for the very first time can be a emotional thing. *Sigh* He's complicated, and sometimes he doesn't even want to open up to me and I'm bloody writing him!
> 
> It's really hard to me to write the timid virgin stereotype. It's just...so cliche in romance. It's a fun trope, I get it, but I have no desire to explore it. So, I imagine after being all repressed, proper, and restrained, Belle just snapped. She's like that teenager who's just dying to lose it (and lose it to Gold!) 
> 
> This is a short chapter, but the next chapter is like 5k and we will have a Victorian Christmas!!! And lots of fluff. Tons of it. I promise. Not a lick of angst in the next one. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Historical Notes**
> 
>  
> 
> Before there was prohibition, there was Anthony Comstock and his New York Society for the Suppression of Vice. Comstock was Postmaster Inspector and convinced Congress to pass the "Comstock Law" that made it illegal to mail things like smut, banned books, birth control, and other things he happened not to like because he wasn't a fun guy. That's an understatement. This guy was a giant asshole to the word fun. 
> 
> It's a bit too early for Margaret Sanger's Planned Parenthood to appear, so no dutch caps, but the womb veils is a precursor to the diaphragm. It used be sold through magazine ads before the Comstock Laws made mailing/circulating birth control illegal. 
> 
> Okay, let's be real here. If Gold was a prostitute in 1880s NYC, it's _super duper_ likely he would have contracted a venereal disease. I'm pulling creative license on this one. He didn't, but I did want to address it how likely it was. 
> 
> I did a thing. "Let Me Call You Sweetheart" was a popular song, albeit from the 1910s, but it's one of my favorite ragtime songs. It's also the song Anne sings to Gilbert at the end of The Continuing Story (but I try to ignore that one ever happened, it's awful). https://youtu.be/nnFLOPHJWlo
> 
> find me at <http://morganfir.tumblr.com/>


	7. Season's Greetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you can stand playing Christmas music in late September, here is a mix of music recorded on brown wax cylinders around the 1900-1910s. [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zOBKgQj-qqg)

Shortly after his recovery, New York fell into a deep freeze. Most uptowners flocked to Central Park for ice skating, but Gold couldn’t take her with his knee. Instead, he rent a sleigh to pull them around the park. Belle was awed by the winter wonderland and he made the driver take a second loop around.

When he heard she’d never seen a moving picture, he took to a respectable Nickelodeon, where they caught a showing of a condensed version of Alice in Wonderland. Afterwards, they gorged themselves on penny candies and shared a marvelous sugar rush as they walked home.

It took two weeks, but he was able to procure two tickets to see Sarah Bernhardt in the Garden Theater’s production of Hamlet. The box seats weren’t the best view, but Belle was able to spot everyone through her opera glasses. Not exactly an avid theater patron, he realized as soon as he entered the box seat that going to the theaters was as much for the gossip as it was for enjoying the performance. He felt like an caged animal in a zoo as others turned their gold-rimmed binoculars upon them. The only thing the nosy society matrons couldn’t catch was Gold holding Belle’s hand on his good knee. That night, he placed a chaste, but soft kiss on her mouth before he saw her safely into the warmth of her home. It took everything not to follow her inside for a nightcap.

Honestly, the happiest times were the days he filled it with Belle. She made him feel young again, and for a brief moment, all his scars became faint memories of a past. Eventually, the newness of their courtship wore off when all the questions were answered. As they began to spend more time enjoying the silence of their company, he knew that their courtship was nearing its finale.

After several cups of coffee, numerous arguments with David, and three-dozen velvet boxes, Gold had finally found the ring for Belle. A cushion cut diamond set in a rectangular setting, surrounded by smaller diamonds. It had delicate latticework around the center diamond, beveled edges, and tapered shoulders that narrowed into a thin, gold band.

“This is the one, sir,” David said, holding the box up in his scarred hand.

“Are you sure?” Gold asked, his eyes darting from the salesman and David’s exhausted face. “What if she doesn’t like it?” He then gestured to the giant rock flanked by beveled sapphires. “What about this one?" 

David groaned as he rubbed the frustration out of his face.

“That is also a fine choice, sir,” the salesman lauded. 

“Stop it, you,” David said, pointing his finger at the salesman holding up the other diamond. “I know you get a cut of whatever he’s buyin’.”

The salesman’s smile slipped from his face as he lowered the ring back onto the table.

“More expensive doesn’t mean better,” David argued, tapping the table with the bottom of the box. 

“Usually, it does,” Gold dryly replied.

David groaned. “This is the one, I swear it.” 

Uneasy, Gold took the box from David’s hand and held it out. It was the ring she’d wear for the rest of her life, he couldn’t choose falsely. He tried to imagine the jewel adorning Belle’s finger, but failed. In fact, he couldn’t imagine a ring on her finger at all.

“What if she doesn’t say yes?” Gold questioned, dropping the box on the table with a clap.

David leaned forward, bracing his weight with his hands on his knees. Instead of a clerk, he looked like a manager giving his fighter a pep talk before a big fight.

“I spent most of my life in the ring. I knew from the moment a man held up his fists what type of man he was. Was he going to play fair or dirty? Was I going down with a few teeth missing, or he was going to get one nasty lump on his noggin’? You can tell a lot about a man from his first punch,” David leaned back, crossing his arms over his puffed-up chest. “Well, love isn’t all that different. I bet you knew from the very beginnin’ that she was the one. Every round, you gave it your all, and she kept coming back for more instead of bowing out of the ring.” David picked up the ring and held it out, he was pleading with him, not to take the ring, but put him out of his misery so he could go home. “Just marry the girl, boss.”

The salesman crooned about cuts and carats, and spewing fancy words he thought would impress him. David peeled back the fancy layers and talked to him like another bloke down at the pub. Despite all his wealth, he was just another lad from a single-end in Edinburgh.

Gold snatched the ring from his hand. “I’ll take it,” he told the salesman.

 

~*~

 

The Riverside mansion was dripping with Christmas cheer. Garlands crafted from fresh evergreen branches and hollies were strung in perfect scallops over the doorways and windows. Giant bouquets of poinsettias decorated tabletops and flanked the sides of the fireplace mantel. The house smelled divine, a pleasant aroma of fresh pine, burning firewood, and spiced wine.

A Douglas fir was nestled in the corner of the parlor, strung with metal garland and electric lights. Underneath the tree was a horde of presents, wrapped in fancy paper, and had his name written on it in elegant script. Admiring the beautifully decorated Christmas tree, Gold was struck with a brilliant idea. Before anyone saw him, he withdrew the velvet box from his breast pocket and hid it in the thick foliage of the tree. It was safely balanced on a branch, hidden from sight.

“Ah! You’re here!” Belle exclaimed from the door.

Gold snapped around, dropping his hand at his side and tried to look inconspicuous.

Belle immediately narrowed her eyes. “Were you peeking?”

“What?” Gold blurted out as he nervously fidgeted under her suspicious stare. It only took a second for him to realize that she thought he was secretly looking at the presents under the tree like an impatient child. “I believe you caught me,” he lied. 

Belle forgave him with an adoring smile. She crossed the room and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. 

“You look handsome,” she sighed as her eyes raked down his figure. He was wearing his black tails, matched with a cream colored vest and an elegantly tied bow. However, she was still dressed in her informal tea gown with her hair tied in rag curls.

“You look wonderful yourself, dear,” he teased and flicking one of her rag curls with his fingers. “Is this the new fashion?”

“My hair is still setting,” she explained before patting her head with her palm, checking to see if the curls were dry. 

Suddenly, her jovial mood shifted, as if she remembered something she once forgot.

“Did you get it?” Belle asked as she pulled away. Her face was consumed by worry and he could feel the nervousness rolling off of her in waves. “I should have known better than booking a string quartet on Christmas Eve. I can’t believe the Goulds’ would snatch up my musicians!” 

Belle had called his apartment in a state of panic when she found out her musicians had cancelled at the last minute to play at another party. With Open House parties popping up all over the city, the competition between the upper-crust families to have the best one was extraordinary. Gold offered her an answer to her challenging predicament.

“Yes,” Gold said, ushering her to the nearby table to show her the startling contraption. It was a wooden box, no bigger than a shoebox, with a golden trumpet angled upwards. “Edison’s Home Phonograph! This should solve your problem, sweetheart.”

“How does it work?” Belle asked, timidly caressing the edge of the horn with her fingertips.

Gold plucked a round container from the table, lifted the lid, and slid out a brown wax cylinder. Holding it by the hollow interior with his two fingers, he slid the recording onto the phonograph. He carefully arranged the needle at the edge and gave the box a good crank. The cylinder began to spin and music filled the parlor room.

“Oh!” Belle exclaimed, clapping her hands together as if she could applaud the musicians through the horn. “This is wonderful!”

“I’ll show Jefferson how to use it so he can change the cylinders throughout the night,” Gold figured.

Belle kissed him on the cheek. “You’re brilliant, you know that?”

He draped his arm over her shoulder and pulled in a reassuring hug. “Tonight is going to be lovely,” he promised her as they listened to the phonograph play. “And if people start looking unhappy, then we load them up with alcohol. There was never a dull party if there’s drinks involved.”

Belle laughed, easing away the tension in her body. When she pulled back, she looked up with him with eyes full of appreciation. David was right, Belle was in it until the end and he cursed himself for ever thinking otherwise.

“Miss, I need to do your hair,” Ruby called from the parlor door.

Gold playfully flicked another rag curl. “Go,” he told her. “I’ll manage things down here while you prepare.”

Belle nodded, looking more relaxed than when he arrived. “Don’t peek at your gifts!” She playfully ordered.

Gold crossed his heart with his index finger before she slipped out of the room. There wasn’t much managing to do, not with a skilled household staff that was professionals at preparing for an extravagant party. 

Because it was an Open House party, Belle didn’t have to prepare a structured meal with several courses.As he drifted into the dining room, he saw that Belle had pulled out her best Gorham silver in that popular chantilly design everyone owned, and filled the table with a feast of sugary wonder. Even the cook had outdone herself with the mountains of peanut candy, peppermint creams, chocolate creams, butterscotch, marrons glaces, almond nougats, and orange cakes. It put Henry Maillards confectionary department to shame. People would enter for a few minutes, have a drink and socialize, maybe sit down by the fire to warm up before they jumped in their carriage to migrate to the next party. The well-to-do liked to pretend they were nothing like the lower classes, but even they constructed their own respectable version of a pub crawl.

Instead of complicating matters by interfering with her staff, Gold busied himself by showing Jefferson how to use the phonograph. He paused, midsentence, when he noticed the portrait of Maurice and Belle had been removed from above the roaring fireplace. He didn’t have time to ask about it when he heard Belle’s heels clicking as she descended the staircase. He turned around, but didn’t expect that he’d have to lean entirely on his cane when she glided into the room like a sugar plum fairy.

She was _beautiful_.

Belle wore a fitted gown made from burgundy velvet with a sweetheart neckline and billowing puffed sleeves. Her elegant neck was adorned with a filigree choker, studded with diamonds and pearls between the white gold latticework. She sported a fashionable Gibson Girl bouffant, with carefully constructed waves and curls framing her skillfully painted face.

It took everything to keep him bending a knee right then and there.

“You’re staring again,” Belle told him as she happily endured his appreciative eyes.

Gold lifted his eyebrows. “There’s a lot to stare at, Diana.”

Belle heavily blushed at the rare sobriquet he’d adorn her with when words couldn’t justify his admiration for her. With a smile, she crossed the room and he welcomed her with open arms.

“Thank you for being here,” she said with heartfelt gratitude as she slipped into his embrace. “For spending Christmas with me,” she whispered as she began to fiddle with the button of his waistcoat. “I don’t know what I would have done if I had to spend the holidays alone.”

“You would have found your place,” Gold said with certainty as he wrapped her arms around her back. He was careful not to muss up her hair or her dress. It was an awkward hug, but any embrace with Belle felt like heaven. “But you never have to be alone again.”

Belle was leaning forward to kiss him when the doorbell rang. She dropped her head to the side, sighing in frustration as they heard the front door swing open. Even after weeks of courting, Belle was still as eager to have more than just kisses. In most courtships, it was the other way around. 

“It seems your first guests of the evening have arrived,” Gold said with amusement when he spotted the frustration in her face. “Let us now play our parts.” 

While Gold preferred quiet nights of solitude, absent of annoying snobs and their trivial conversation, he didn't mind playing the part of Belle’s charismatic and charming beau. He knew under their false smiles and fictitious pleasantries that they cared as little him as he cared for them. Yet, he pretended all the same.

When the house was buzzing with people, Belle rapped her silver spoon against the goblet of her spice wine. 

“Pardon!” She announced, rushing into the center of the room. Jefferson quickly muted the phonograph and the conversations in the room died down to few whispers. “As gratitude for sharing this wonderful evening with me, I’ve arranged a little surprise for you all!” 

A man dressed in an outlandish suit made from red wool and trimmed in gold braiding appeared at the parlor doors. He rolled a trolley covered with a sheet into the center of the room.

“A magical lantern show!” Belle exclaimed, bubbling with excitement.

The man pulled off the sheet to reveal a camera with two sets of lenses, aimed for the bare wall above the fireplace. The room erupted in applause as the lights in the room were dimmed.

Belle rushed to his side, spilling some of her wine onto her kidskin gloves without concern.

“I was wondering where the portrait went,” he whispered as the cameraman slipped a glass slide into the device. Projected onto the screen was a picture of an old man hunched over a stack of gold coins.

“I needed a change,” Belle said, though he could hear the guilt in her voice. “I never liked that picture.”

As Gold studied Belle’s face in the glow of the painted slides, the cameraman began to recite Dickens’ _The Christmas Carol_ , word for word. 

“Why not?” He inquired, keeping his voice down to a whisper.

Belle took a sip of her wine as she stared at the scenes illuminating the parlor wall.

“My parents sat for Sargent before my mother’s death. It was suppose to be my mother and my father, but then my mother died and the painting went unfinished. Instead of having Sargent work from a picture of my mother, Father ordered him to paint me in her stead. It was uncomfortable.”

She was slurring her words as she spoke, but still spoke her thoughts with confidence. If anything, the drink unloosened her stiff corset and let her speak more freely about living her late father.

“He would tell me things,” she confessed, her breath shaky as she exhaled. “Things fathers shouldn’t tell their daughters.”

Gold’s fingers tightened around his tumbler. “Like what?”

“How he missed my mother…physically.” Belle paused to take a gulp of wine. A droplet of wine escaped the corner of her mouth, and she wiped it away with her gloved hand. 

“Did he touch you?” Gold gravelly asked.

“No!” She insisted, horrified. “No, he never…it wasn’t like that.” 

Gold had been waiting for an answer to his suspicions, but it gave him little comfort. Maurice had still treated Belle poorly.

“I never approved of his treatment of you,” he stiffly shared with her. “I tried to convince him to send you abroad, or at least back to school. Anything to get out of this house.” 

“Then you were a better friend than he deserved,” Belle shared as the happiness returned to her voice. 

“He was insistent on keeping you away from that Durand fellow,” he shared, braving to finally mention him now that he had won her hand. “Thought he was a rake.”

Belle smiled into her glass before she took another sip. “He was,” she said, indifferent.

Gold frowned. “Was he untoward?” He asked, wondering if that was the reason for her expert forwardness. Maybe someone had touched her first. 

“Don’t worry, I guarded my virtue well,” she coyly replied, her eyes dazzling with mirth, either from him or the drink. Maybe both. “I wouldn’t worry, he ran off to Paris with some trollop,” she assured him, without an ounce of sadness in her voice. Perhaps she was over the fool, but he doubted it. First loves faded slowly.

“I’m sorry that he broke your heart,” Gold whispered, truly feeling a strange sense of guilt for being the conduit that sparked her heartache. It was unusual, as he never felt such a thing before over a man’s death.

“Why are we talking about him again?” Belle asked, refusing to take his apology. “He holds little comparison to you.”

Gold stood a bit taller, his ego stroked so skillfully by Belle’s words. The girl was right, it was Christmas Eve and they were wasting their words on dead men when they should be jovially drunk and stealing secret kisses in the darkness. He would not see her shedding tears over bastards who didn’t deserve them.

“You’re right, as always. Enjoy your wine,” he devilishly encouraged as he drew her against his side. “Let us be merry.”

Belle leaned her head on her shoulder and sighed in the comfort of his embrace. They watched as the Ghost of Christmas Future glided across the screen. The orator’s voice dropped eerie pitch as he explained to Ebenezer Scrooge the impact of his cruel, miserly ways. He held Belle a little more tightly against him and convinced himself it was only a story.

 

~*~

 

By the time the last guest departed for the night, Gold was stuffed full of squares of nougats, chocolate creams, and orange cakes. He swore he wouldn’t ever eat another sweet as long as he lived. Belle was humming a Christmas carol while nursing another goblet of wine. He couldn’t remember how many she had, likely several from the lovely flush on her face.

“You look pleased with yourself,” Gold said as he plopped into the chair beside her. “Had a nice evening?”

“Yes!” She said, smiling proudly as she propped her feet on the ottoman.

“You’re the brilliant one, you know,” Gold applauded as he worked at the tight knot of his necktie. He released the bow with a sigh. “Between the phonograph and the magic lantern, people didn’t want to leave. I bet they’ll be a nice column in the _World_ this Sunday about Miss French’s spectacular party.”

“And it couldn’t be because of your charming personality?” Belle teased.

“That has to be the most hilarious joke I ever heard,” Gold dryly replied.

“It’s true!” She argued, convinced. “You’re so charismatic! When you talk to people, they just listen to every word you say. It’s like magic.”

“I assure you, it’s not magic. It’s just a result of presenting cases to bored jurors,” he truthfully told her before examining her from his seat. She looked a lush with that goblet in her hand and that giddy smile on her face. “How many drinks have you had?”

Belle giggled, rocking her feet back and forth. “I lost count.”

Before she could take another sip of her wine, Gold reached over and plucked it from her hands.

“Hey!” She objected with an adorable pout. “Give it back!” 

“You’ve been sipping on this all night, I want to see what the fuss is about,” he said with a laugh before he took a sip.

It was sweet, like a dessert port, spiced with nutmeg, clover, hint of orange zest, and other spices he couldn’t place. Gold licked his lips as he leaned over to return her glass. It was too sweet for his palette, but the spices were a nice combination. 

“I made it,” Belle told him. “It was my mother’s recipe. It’s called glühwein.” 

He heard about the drink when he lived among immigrants. It was like his version of a wassail. “Now, where would a lady learn how to make German spirits?” He wondered as he plucked his glass of scotch from the nearest table.

Belle placed her glass on the nearest table before she stood up. She struggled for a moment, untwisting her skirts and adjusting her bodice before she went to the desk in the corner. Her movements were anything but graceful, her steps heavy on the floor and her movements sloppy. When she returned, she held out a cabinet card of a posed woman dressed in a harlequin outfit. Despite the odd theatrical costume, he immediately recognized the face.

“That’s your mother?” He exclaimed, studying the portrait more closely.

Belle collapsed on the couch and reclaimed her goblet. “Her real name was Esther Kirshner. Colette was just a stage name." 

“Kirshner?”

“She was a Jew from Little Germany. When she had enough of being the butcher’s daughter, she decided to become an actress. That’s how my father met her,” she said before wiggling her eyebrows in mischief. “He was her patron.”

It was a secret even Maurice hadn’t shared with him. As he stared at Colette’s face, he recognized the look of cunning in her eyes. She had crafty to be to rise from the vaudeville stage to esteemed wife of a millionaire. 

“Everyone hated her,” Belle shared as plopped back into her chair. “No one invited her to parties, and when they did they snubbed her. After that, she stopped caring about what the society papers said. She smoked cigars with the men and cursed like a sailor with the ladies.”

“Sounded like you could take the girl out of Little Germany, but you couldn’t take Little Germany out of the girl,” he joked as he delicately slipped the cabinet card onto the table. “I wish I could have met her.”

“She would have liked you,” Belle said, wistful.

“I’m sure the feeling would be mutual,” Gold promised.

The two of them fell into a cheery silence, their bellies full of sweets and heads light with spirits. Every so often the Yule log would crack before it loudly shifted on the grate. When Gold began to grow restless, all of clocks in the house began to chime.

“Midnight,” Belle whispered as her eyes were drawn to the clock above the fireplace. “It’s Christmas.”

“So it is,” he agreed as he looked over at the tree. “Perhaps we should open our presents now?”

“Now? But it isn’t Christmas morning!”

“It is, technically,” he answered her with a smirk. “Let us begin our own traditions, sweetheart.”

Belle pressed her lips together as she mentally argued with herself. It only took a moment before her eyes lit up with impishness and nodded her head in agreement.

“Alright!” Belle exclaimed as she rose from the chair. “We pick for each other!”

Gold grinned, feeling suddenly youthful and full of glee. “Deal!”

A shooting pain shot up from his knee when he rose from his seat. He groaned, leaning forward on his cane before falling back into his chair. Belle rushed to his side, kneeling at his feet as she stared at his bad leg in honest concern. He closed his eyes as the pain intensified. 

“Sweetheart, are you alright? Is your knee?” Belle fussed in a concerned voice.

“I’m fine,” he said through gritted teeth. It endured the pain in silence until it was nothing but a discomforting ache. When he opened his eyes, Belle was staring at him with such worry that it warmed his heart.

“I just stood up too fast, that’s all,” he explained, reaching out to pet her cheek with the back of his knuckles. Oh, she was a loving girl. “Don’t worry, I’m fine.”

“You stay here,” Belle directed in a stern tone. “You just point to the present and I’ll fetch it for you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Gold joked, trying to lighten the mood he spoiled with his crippled leg.

They worked at a leisurely pace, nothing like the frenzy of children eager to see what hid under the fancy paper. Belle would pluck a gift for him and he’d point to a gift for her. When she’d return, they took turns opening presents. 

Belle had gifted him a pair of silver cufflinks from Gorhams, a box of new collars from Mathew Rock, a new cane with intricate wooden inlays down the shaft, a new bowler hat, and a bottle of fine scotch. He answered each gift with a chaste peck on her cheek.

He grew nervous each time she opened her gifts, but she would only gush about how wonderful they were. Gold had picked out a pair of fine leather gloves, a parasol dripping with lace and ribbons, a bolt of fine silk brocade for her dressmaker, a tortoiseshell comb, and a gift set of Yardley perfumes and soaps.

“I love it,” she said with a bright smile.

“Truly?” Gold asked before he began rubbing the back of his neck with his fingers in a nervous gesture. “I can’t take all the credit for it, I asked your shopgirl at Lord and Taylor's about what you’d like.” 

“That’s what makes it all wonderful presents, that you cared enough to try to find out what I'd like,” Belle explained as she discarded the paper on the floor. 

His heart was beating wildly in his chest as he held the second to last gift in his hands.

“I’m afraid I don’t have anything else to give you,” Belle said as she looked down at the envelope in his hand.

Without thinking, he almost threw it at her before loosing his courage. Belle didn’t notice his rush and examined the envelope carefully before pulling back the lip. Gold busied himself by taking a sip of his scotch, anxiously watching her over the rim of the glass as she slowly drew out the tickets. Her smile fell as her eyes studied at the Cunard logo. 

“Sweetheart,” she began, “first class tickets to Liverpool?”

“You don’t like it?” Gold asked, calm and collected, even has his hands turned clammy and his good knee began to bounce in nervousness.

“No!” Belle exclaimed. “Of course I do! First class cabins on the _Lucania_ , what’s there not to like?” 

Gold heard the reservation in her voice. “But you’re unhappy,” he stated, absolutely crushed.

“Oh, sweetheart, of course I’m happy!” Belle said, reaching over to place her hand to still his bouncing knee. “I just…” she stopped, glancing down at the tickets. “I know I said I didn’t mind us not…waiting…for you know,” she hinted, quite indelicately, to premarital relations. “But that was because it was in private. I can’t… _we can’t_ go to England together. We just...can’t.”

Obviously, giving her the tickets had sparked an argument of impropriety. He relaxed knowing that it wasn’t that she didn’t want to travel with him, she could only travel as someone other than Miss French.

Very carefully, he leaned against his old cane before standing up. 

“Just think what would people say if we shared a suite!” Belle told him as he limped crossed the room towards the tree. He noticed how his toes would drag no matter how much he tried to lift his foot.

“As much as I want to, and believe me I do, I can’t!” Belle continued, believing that he was upset with her, or that she needed to convince him otherwise.

Gold plucked the little box from the tree. 

“Can’t you understand?” Belle questioned, her voice growing desperate.

“Belle,” he began in a soft voice, turning around to show her the little box he held between his fingertips. Belle’s eyes went wide and dropped the tickets in her lap. “I had no intention on taking you to England as my mistress."

Gold crossed the room, limping as he ignored the growing pain in his leg, and slid back into the seat across from her. She was silent, her eyes locked on the little box he carried in his hand, with both of her hands over her gaping mouth. 

“You’d forgive me if I didn’t kneel?” He asked, very business like, as he leaned the cane on the side of his chair.

Speechless, Belle made a little noise before nodding her head. 

“Do you remember the first time we met?” Gold asked as he drew her left hand away from her mouth. “Your father had just hired me and invited me over for Sunday roast.”

“I remember,” Belle whispered. 

With intense concentration, he began to unfasten the buttons of her glove, one by one. They were small, seed buttons with tight loops that took some skillful work to slip off. 

“You went to Coney Island with your friends,” he recalled.

“It was the last time he let me see them,” she added in a sad voice.

“Hush,” he gently urged as slid the loop off the last button. “You can see and do anything you like now,” he reminded her, not as a way to make himself look better, but as a promise to never be an overbearing husband. Belle shall have her friends, and her parties, and her classes at Cooper Union. 

“Your hair was wild and there was dirt all over your white dress,” he laughed, remembering the trail of sand she trailed behind. “You looked so happy, so free. You were everything I never was,” he told her as he tugged at the fingertips of her glove. “Do you remember me?”

“Yes, I thought you were another of my father’s boring old friends,” she confessed with candor.

Gold laughed as he slipped the glove off of her hand in one, long tug. He danced his fingertips up and down her forearm and they both shivered at his touch.

“But I watched you,” she meekly added.

“I know, I caught you many times,” he teased, smiling at the memory of youngish Belle stealing looks at him across her father’s table. “What did you think of me?”

“I thought…” she drifted off, watching his fingers dance across her flesh. “That this is the only person in the world who can understand me.” 

Gold eyes snapped up from her hand and caught her stare. For a moment, he saw something that he’d never seen before, but it was gone before he could figure out what it was. It wasn’t love, or admiration, or even lust. It was something deeper, more profound. He couldn’t place it.

“I do,” he insisted before glancing back down at her unadorned hand. “I had loved you ever since I met you, Belle.”

Opening the box, he heard her gasp. He was suddenly proud at his choice, and thankful to David for enduring his afternoon of indecision. With a deep breath, he slid the engagement ring onto her slender finger. The fit was loose, but it looked like it always belonged there.

He looked up from her adorned hand. “Marry me?”

Belle was nodded as she held her other hand over her beating heart. “Yes!” She cried before she launched herself into his arm. “I’ll marry you!”

Before he could doubt her answer, she pressed her lips against his in a zealous kiss, and that was evidence enough of her love. Suddenly, there weren’t any doubts. She was sitting on his lap with his ring on her finger, and very soon she’ll kiss every part of his scarred flesh without a flicker of disgust upon her beautiful face. Even if she didn’t know the whole truth, Gold knew deep in his black heart that she loved him. All of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Notes**
> 
> Belle and Gold see the 1903 version of Alice and Wonderland, which you can still see on youtube. [source](https://youtu.be/zeIXfdogJbA)
> 
> The Garden Theater was a part of the second-era Madison Square Garden. (Stanford White lived in an apartment above Madison Square, where he entertain _the_ Gibson Girl Evelyn Nesbit, but that's another story). In 1900, Sarah Bernhardt played in Hamlet, which the tickets were being sold at five times their original value.
> 
> I imagined going to the theater was much like Mary Cassat's _In the Loge_ where a woman is watching the stage with her opera glasses, but in the foreground a man is watching her with his. source
> 
> Brown Wax Cylinders were a precursor to the record player. They're highly collectable and have a good amount of enthusiasts. I collect 78s when I find them, but dang I'd love real Edison phonograph! 
> 
> The Magic Lantern was the Victorian slide projector, and they'd produce shows with beautifully painted glass slides to tell stories or enchant audiences with phantasmagoria. Here is a great video that goes into further detail about Charles Dickens and his fascination with Magic Lanterns. [source](https://youtu.be/omuDMHj0TZY)
> 
> find me at <http://morganfir.tumblr.com/>


	8. 103 Orchard Street

“Can you lift your foot?”

Gold sat on his desk with his pant leg rolled over his leg. He leaned forward, his hands braced on the edge with a few locks of his pomade hair falling over his brow. He let out a grunt between his gritted teeth, but nothing happened.

He gave up. “I can’t.”

With a sigh, Dr. Baker rose from the floor and pulled the stethoscope from around her neck.

“And you’ve been dragging you toes as you walk?” She questioned.

“Yes,” he admitted with a frustrated sigh.

“Were you able to climb the stairs?”

Gold closed his eyes at the humiliating memory falling out of bed this morning and having to call David to assist him. He let his silence answer her question. 

“I think the peroneal nerve in your leg has finally atrophied,” she explained, looking down at the twisted leg with an observant eye. “It makes sense, the loss of muscles mass from the lack of nerve stimulation and dragging your toes is common symptom.”

Gold heard his teeth grind as he clenched his jaw in frustration. “Just tell me, am I going to be walking down the aisle?”

“You’ll be walking,” Dr. Baker said with certainty, but her voice didn’t sound hopefully. “But in a leg brace. It will be uncomfortable, but it will keep your foot parallel to the ground and support your weight as you walk.”

“Goddamn it!” Gold cursed, throwing his arm out at his side and knocking his lamp off his desk. Dr. Baker flinched, not from his burst of anger, but from the sound of the lamp crashing onto the floor.

“I’ll leave a name of an orthopedic with your clerk,” Dr. Baker softly said, turning around to drop her stethoscope in her physician’s bag.

Gold remained silent as he dropped his pant leg and slid back into his chair, not bothering with his sock and shoes.

“I’ve received you invitation in the mail yesterday. You’re having the wedding at Belle’s home?” Dr. Baker inquired.

Gold combed back his hair. “Miss French’s reverend wouldn’t dare marry a Catholic to one of his parishioners, and I wouldn’t ask her to endure a Latin mass.”

“Ah,” Dr. Baker said, busying herself by arranging her tools in her bag. “I’m sure it will be quite lovely nonetheless." 

“Are you bringing a date?” Gold inquired, wondering about the private life of his stern doctor.

She didn’t falter in her movements. “A friend of mine from the NAWSA.”

Gold smirked, remembering how he’d only seen her in the presence of ladies. Everything made perfect sense. “Ah, a girl,” he teased.

“Is that a question, Mr. Gold? I was always under the assumption that you were a perceptive man.”

“Miss! Miss! Wait a moment!” David shouted from behind his glass door. Dr. Baker and Gold remained silent at sound of his clerk’s desperate pleas. The door slammed open with an echoing wham. Belle marched in the room, very much looking like a vengeful Valkyrie flying down from the heavens to whisk away victims to Valhalla.

Belle staggered in the doorway, her eyes widening at Dr. Baker’s presence in his office and catching the sight of the broken lamp on the floor. 

“Sara, would you give us a moment?” She inquired politely. 

“I’m just leaving,” Dr. Baker quickly said as she clicked her bag closed. 

Belle waited in silence until Dr. Baker closed the door behind her.

“Your leg?” She questioned, appraising him with suspicious eyes.

“I’m fine,” he lied, desperate to change the subject. “What is this all about?”

“What is this all about?” Belle repeated in disbelief as her eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. “You don’t know?” 

Gold shook his head as he turned his palms up in surrender. “No, I don’t!” He exclaimed in his defense.

He was beginning to realize that a woman scorned was probably the most terrifying thing he’d encountered. He’d rather go up against a grand jury unprepared than sit across from an irate fiancée.

This had to be his fault, somehow. “Would you care to enlighten me so I can understand what I did wrong?”

Belle crossed the room and slammed a newspaper over a pile of unfinished contracts. Lifting the paper from his desk, he immediately noticed Belle’s grainy picture, cut from their engagement photo, under the society column in the Sunday supplement of the _World_.

 _HYSTERICAL HEIRESS -- Miss French had nothing to loose with her father’s mysterious and untimely death. Neither did Mr. Gold, the_ grieving _daughter’s conservator over her two million dollar estate, which includes the illustrious Riverside Park mansion and the twenty-acre estate near Poughkeepsie. In a month, Miss French will become Mrs. Gold. How utterly coincidental!_

 _We have it on good authority that Mr. Gold first met the heiress two years ago and was immediately smitten. However, he didn’t know that she carried a depraved secret. The reason why the beautiful Miss French never made a formal entrance into society is because she was suffering from female hysteria! The seventeen-year-old debutante was too busy sneaking out of her window to find_ pleasures _in the seedy dance halls of the Tenderloin district to give ancient Mr. Gold any heed._

_However, when Mr. Gold became her conservator, he sought out a new treatment for her strange condition—marriage! Hopefully a funeral plot is thrown in with the wedding service. Two million dollars is a lot of money. Certainly to die for!_

Gold was terrified to look up.

This was the moment where Belle demanded the truth, and he knew that he wouldn’t be able to lie to her. He’d confess him sins and watch her face twist in horror at the stranger sitting across from her. He’d go to Sing-Sing before being thrown into the electric chair, or worse, she’d throw her engagement ring at him and call the wedding off.

“How could they know those things?” Belle questioned with contempt. “How could they know about my hysteria?”

Shocked, Gold finally looked up from the paper. She was still furious, but he could see the humiliation deep in her eyes. This wasn’t about the heavy implication of his involvement in Maurice’s death. It was about her private health being strung in the papers for all to read. 

“It’s just rubbish,” he said, his voice eerily steady despite his heart beating like a drum under his chest.

“They couldn’t know about it unless someone told them,” Belle insisted, leaning forward with her hands on her hips. 

“Belle,” he began, but stopped when his voice cracked.

Her fury was snuffed out like an oil lamp as he watched her crack into something that made his stomach twist in agony. She circled the chair before sitting down and held the edge of the desk with her gloved hands. He was horrified when she stared at him with desperate hope, as if she had something to apologize for.

“It’s not true, you know,” she hastily insisted. “I mean, I did sneak out, but it wasn’t because of _those reasons_.”

He tried to stop her with his hand, but she ignored his gesture. 

“I was bored!” She exclaimed with growing panic. “I went to a few dance halls with my friends from school. They were all very proper establishments, and I only danced with a few boys from Columbia, that’s it. It only happened a few times until Father found out and he nailed my window shut and I never went again.”

It was the only time she sounded actually hysterical. She was desperate for forgiveness, so readily to fall on her knees and beg for it, that it was hard to look at her without feeling guilt himself. He saw his mother in her, the times she had to beg for charitable mercy, and it tore him to pieces.

“Belle, stop,” Gold finally had the strength to say. “I don’t care about some teenage mischief, for goodness sakes.”

She gulped and her face softened. “You don’t?” 

“Why should I?” Gold insisted, shaking his head in disbelief after all the things he told her about his past. “The society column never bothered you before.” 

Gold blinked, immediately realizing that he said the wrong thing. Belle clenched her jaw, dipped at the waist to pluck the newspaper out of the trash, and plopped it right down into his to-do pile. 

“That was different,” she began as she rose from her chair to loom over him. “That was a blurb about a stupid dress. This,” she said as she placed her index finger onto the paper, “is private information published for the whole city to read. Do you know I had two women from the Temperance Union knock on my door and try to persuade me to end our engagement? They had the audacity to come into my home and tell me _my_ business, on ‘the account of my condition.’”

Gold sighed. “Belle—”

“ _I am not Evelyn Nesbit_!” She proclaimed in a loud voice for the entire office to overhear. “I am not some chorus girl to be ripped to pieces by Sidney Glass, I am to be your wife!”

And a shoddy reporter was disrespecting his future wife. He understood that Belle was cautious with her words. She knew exactly the right thing to say to stroke the protectiveness he felt over her. 

“You fix this,” Belle gravelly ordered as she tapped the newspaper with her finger. “You make this go away.”

Belle was giving him a command, not a request. It was unnecessary. He would have taken care if it when he saw how much distress the article caused her. However, Gold knew that this was just more than solicitous gossip. Belle was testing him, to see how far he’d go to protect her. She’d only heard about his ruthlessness in court, but she’d yet to see anything but the warmness he showered her with.

“I’ll handle it,” Gold promised.

Belle leaned back and pulled at the edge of her jacket. She changed as quickly as a hot tap, the anger dissipating as she painted a sweet smile on her face.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” she sweetly said as she turned towards the door. When she opened it, Gold caught several people peeking into their office. It wasn’t to see Mr. Gold’s lovely fiancée, but to catch the sight of the depraved heiress the read about. It took seeing others to realize how the newspaper was a problem.

“Purple and white,” she cryptically said as she held the door.

“What?” he questioned as he knitted his eyebrows in confusion. 

“The color scheme for the wedding bouquets, purple and white?” She asked, tilting her head aside as she waited for his answer.

“Uh, that sounds lovely, sweetheart,” he said, slightly disoriented from her changeable behavior.

“I’ll tell the florist you approve,” she cheerfully said before she shut door behind him with a soft click. The office was eerily quiet when it was filled with the click of typewriters and rings from the telephones. Gold knew exactly when she had left when the office exploded into whispers.

“David!” Gold yelled.

David opened the door too quickly to be at his desk. It seemed more plausible that he was right outside, eavesdropping the entire conversation.

“Sir?”

Unfolding the paper, he saw the name listed under the headline. “Find out everything you can on this Sidney Glass.”

  

~*~

 

Gold tried to ignore the discomfort of a leg brace by nursing his sifter of fine brandy and taking a few puffs of his cigar. Belle wasn’t going to be pleased when she embraced him at the door and found he reeked of Cuban tobacco. He didn’t indulge in smoking often, but this Sidney Glass was already proving to be an annoyance. Finally, he heard the commotion at the club door as a black man walked through the marble archway. Men stared and whispered with each other as his eyes scanned the room. He paused when he spotted Gold sitting in the corner with a cigar and sifter in his hands.

Sidney Glass. 

Gold stood up and offered his hand to shake. He might not be the biggest fan of Glass’ work, but he wasn’t rude.

“So this must be the impressive Mr. Gold,” Sidney said as they shook hands, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“And you’re Mr. Glass,” Gold plainly said before offering his a seat. “You’re late.” 

They both sat down in plush leather chairs, ignoring the stares from the rest of the old, white men that were shocked to have a black man sit among them like equals.

“Forgive me,” Sidney stiffly replied. “It took some time to convince the doorman that I wasn’t expected through the backdoor. It seems that it’s alright for a colored man to serve cocktails.” He pointed to the bartender across the room. “It’s a different thing altogether to serve _him_ a cocktail.”

Gold reached for the cigar he left in his ashtray. "They're not so fond of a Scot either."

Sidney glowered. "It's not the same, and you know it."

"Yes," Gold replied, nodding his head in regrettable agreement. "It isn't."

"Why am I here?" Sidney inquired.

“They have a Ladies Annex, just down the hall,” he said, pointing to the doors Sidney had just entered through. “My fiancée applied for membership a few months ago, but didn’t hear anything for weeks. They told her that they’d speed up their consideration if she purchased a platinum-level tickets to this year’s charity gala.”

Gold took a puff, letting the smoke rise up to add to the cloud of tobacco smog blanketing the ceiling.

“A three-hundred dollars later, they finally got around to interview her,” Gold told him as he began to nod. “But it was nothing more than a cruel joke. They had no intention of admitting her from the beginning.” 

Sidney lifted his eyebrow. “I’m sure you’ll remedy that.”

“My membership process proved much easier. They couldn’t turn me away, not after all the money I saved them by finding loopholes in contracts where others would find none. And after a chat with their wives, they sent a bouquet of flowers to my fiancée with an offer of membership.”

Gold pulled out a cigar from his breast pocket and offered it to him. Sidney took it without a thank you and placed it between lips. Gold struck a match and lit the end until it glowed red. 

“See, I’ll do anything for Miss French,” Gold explained before he blew out the match and dropped it into the ashtray. “Especially snuffing out slanderous gossip written by a hack.”

Sidney pointed his cigar at him. “It’s only slander if it isn’t true,” he countered.

“And this source of yours? The one that gives the _World’s_ ‘good authority’ as they muck the reputation of a kind and charitable woman?” Gold interrogated as he stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray. 

“The same woman who was in a secret liaison with a heroin addict?” Sidney questioned with humor. “The thing about heroin addicts, Mr. Gold, is that they have quite a number of needle marks on their arm. Not just one.”

Gold nosily exhaled as he leaned back into his chair. “You’re implying I had something to do with his death?”

“Murder,” Sidney corrected as he itched the light stubble covering his chin. “I think you have a lot to do with the unfortunate events that seem to surround Miss French lately.”

“This isn’t a off-the-record interview—”

“I assumed we were on the record,” Sidney said with an annoying smile. 

He pressed his lips together as he fought the urge to grab him by his collar and throw him into the wall. How he wished he could end Sidney’s life, but killing a journalist that probably had journalist friends was a stupid decision if there ever was one. Last thing he needed was a bunch of muckrakers going through his garbage. With that in mind, Gold pulled back the lapel of his jacket as he dove his other hand into his breast pocket. He withdrew a small book, no bigger than the size of his palm, titled _The Gentleman’s Directory._ Gold tossed it on the table between them, unafraid that anyone would care enough to notice it.

Sidney’s eyes went wide and as his prideful smirk was gone.

“What’s that?” He asked, feigning ignorance.

“Oh, I think you know what that is,” Gold crooned as he picked up his sifter of brandy to nurse.

“You can’t prove that I wrote that,” Sidney told him with a fearful look in his eyes. 

With that, Gold withdrew the second item from pocket. It was a grainy picture, but Sidney’s face was distinguishable enough to have any jury indict him for breaking the Comstock laws. With a neutral face, Gold dropped the photo over the pocketbook.

“But I can prove that you distributed it,” Gold promised. “I wonder how the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice would feel if he knew you were distributing directories of all the houses of ill-repute in the city?”

Sidney gulped as he examined the picture with careful eyes. There was nothing he could do to deny it. It was clearly Sidney as he walked out of his apartment with a box of questionable books in his hand. “I didn’t see anyone take a picture of me.”

“It’s called the Kodak Brownie camera,” Gold explained with a proud smile. “It’s such a clever little box, takes wonderful photographs even from afar. I was thinking about getting one for the future missus, what do you think?” 

The two sat in a tense silence as Sidney considered his choices. He really didn’t have a choice, not if he wanted to spend several years in jail. Either way, there would be one less columnist ruining his fiancée reputation with slanderous lies. 

“What is it that you want?” Sidney finally said.

Gold made him wait by taking a slow, leisurely sip of his brandy. 

“You’re going to write a retraction with an apology. You’re going to offer your heartfelt congratulations to our engagement. Afterwards, you’ll never write another word about Miss French or I. And finally,” he paused, taking the last sip of his drink, “you’re going to tell me where Zelena Boyle is currently residing.” 

Sidney blinked. “Who?”

“I have no time for games, Mr. Glass,” Gold ordered in a stern voice. “I know she’s your source.”

“She’s not,” he lied.

Gold sighed, growing frustrated with Sidney’s unrelenting loyalty to an annoying maid who couldn’t move on. “I assume your illicit moonlighting was only done out of necessity. The _World_ isn’t known for paying fair wages to their writers.”

“And even less to those who aren’t white,” Sidney replied with frankness.

“You do what I ask of you,” Gold began, retrieving the photograph and the banned book from the table. He dropped back into the safety of his pocket to remind Sidney that he held all the cards. “Not only will these not see the light of day, but I’ll set up a meeting for you at the _Times_.”

Sidney sputtered and raised his eyebrow in surprise. “The _Times_?”

“Do you want to be writing the society column for the rest of your life?” Gold questioned.

“If you do that, then there be another person to take my place and write about Miss French,” Sidney countered.

Gold shrugged. “The only thing they'll have to write about is announcing our first born.”

Sidney looked pensive before he removed a notepad from his pocket. Removing the small pencil from the metal spine, he jotted down a few lines of script before he tore it from the binding. He leaned over and handed it to him.

“You get that interview by Saturday afternoon or the retraction never makes it to print,” Sidney threatened.

Gold flashed his crooked teeth in victory as he snatched the paper from his grasp. “Consider it done, Mr. Glass.”

Sidney said as he rose up from the seat and began to button his double-breasted blazer closed. “Now, if you excuse me, I’m going to leave before someone confuses me for the help.” 

When Sidney left, Gold checked the time on his pocket watch. He had only two hours to rush to his office, collect his things, and then head downtown for court. Grabbing his cane, he rose from his seat and dragged his dead leg under him. Dr. Baker said it would take some time for him to develop the muscles to carry his leg, but it was taking more time than he accepted. As he walked, the metal brace creaked and groaned with every step. He was sure that the members were staring at him when they heard the unusual sound emanating from his leg.

Unable to walk for long distances without growing fatigued, Gold had to rely on hackneys instead of jumping on the city’s cheap public transportation. It proved easier just to jump in a carriage and go straight to his destination than walking blocks on his bad leg to the nearest train or trolley stop. 

As the doorman flagged down a carriage, he spotted the familiar wide brim hat walked down the hallway that lead towards the Ladies Annex.

“Sweetheart!” Belle exclaimed as she spotted him waiting in the lobby. His heart warmed to see the delight on her face that his unexpected presence sparked. 

Belle rushed to his side and planted an eager kiss on his cheek. Usually, he preferred to keep their personal affections private, but this time, he didn’t mind the stiffs watching as his pretty fiancée showered him with admiration and youngish love. He was prideful of his treasure, why not show her off and remind them that he had everything they never could.

“Enjoying the club?” Gold asked as she lowered down on her tiptoes. 

“Dreadful boring,” Belle confessed as she placed her palms on his chest. “But Eleanor Brookhurst has missed her yearly dues. So they might need a new secretary for the charity committee very soon.”

It was a surprise to hear that she didn’t exactly appreciate the club she tried desperately to gain entrance to. Then he figured that his little suffragette was an entrepreneur like her father.   

“And I suppose you’ll suggest some of those funds get directed towards the NAWSA?” Gold whispered in a building full of anti-suffrage lobbyers.

Belle answered him with a cunning smile. “With a full bar in the ladies’ lounge, I know it isn’t going to temperance.” 

Lightly patting his chest, Belle eyes narrowed on his left lapel. Looking down, he saw that Sidney’s note was sticking out of his breast pocket. His stomach lurched when Belle grabbed it before he could he could stop her.

“What’s this?” She asked curiously before opening up the folded sheet. “103 Orchard Street, Apt. 3A?”

Gold slowly slipped the paper out of her fingers and returned it to his breast pocket. “It’s David’s new address.” 

Belle looked puzzled. “Why would David move into the tenements?”

Gold didn’t skip a beat. “Alright, you caught me, I was trying to track down your mother’s family. It thought it would have been a nice surprise at the wedding.”

Belle shook her head in disbelief as her face filled with joy. “That’s so kind of you!” She exclaimed as she placed her hands back onto her chest. “I’m sorry, I ruined the surprise!”

“I didn’t want to tell you until I knew for sure if it was them,” he shared with her, his mind racing as he compiled a believable story.

“I promise I won’t get my hopes up,” she said, full of understanding. Belle removed her hands from his chest and began slipping on her gloves, obscuring her engagement ring from his view. “Would you like to have lunch together?” Belle inquired. 

“I’m afraid I can’t, I have to be in court in an hour,” he told her.

“Then dinner tonight? I’ll have Cook make a roast,” she offered.

“I wish I could, but I have a long night of work ahead.” Gold frowned when he saw look of disappointment on her face. “There’s a lot to get done before I can leave New York,” he reminded her.

“I know,” Belle said, lowering her head in shame. “I’m selfish and impatient and want you all to myself,” she whined through pouting lips.

Sometimes he wondered if she had no idea the effect she had on him. Leaning forward, Gold cupped her cheek with her hand as an apology. There was nothing more he wished to do than to retire his law books and spend all his free time with his future wife, but that wasn’t realistic. They had their parts to play.

“You’ll have a whole month and a half of me at your disposal,” he promised as he brushed her cheekbone with his thumb. “But I have to make sure that the sky won’t fall in my absence.” 

“Of course.” Belle nodded with understanding.

She leaned forward and gifted him another chaste peck on the cheek. When she stepped back, she brushed back a loose strand of hair from his forehead and smoothed a wrinkle in his sleeve. It was such an innocent gesture, but his heart soared at the dedicated attention she bestowed upon him. He couldn’t wait until that was an everyday occurrence.

Gold watched Belle exit the club, completely awestruck by her grace and charm. 

When the doorman approached him to inform him that he required a hackney for him, he gestured to Gold’s cheek. “You got a bit of rouge on your face, sir,” he shared in a cautious whisper.

Snapping out of his love-struck daze, Gold yanked his pocket square and furiously wiped the evidence of Belle’s kisses away before anyone spotted it. He had a fearsome reputation to protect, after all.

 

~*~

 

Murder didn’t entice him as much as it use to. Standing at the courthouse, Gold yawned as he checked the time in his watch. His whole body ached from standing for hours in court and he’d rather go home to sleep then deal with Zelena Boyle. He frowned when saw David pull up a carriage to the side of the road, the horse neighing as he pulled back the reins to a halt.

“How did you manage this?” Gold asked, gesturing to the private coach.

“Mary’s pa is a hackney, I gave him two dollars and a box of cigars if I could have it for a night,” David said as he leaned down to offer his hand to help Gold into the carriage. Gold took his hand and allowed him to haul him beside him onto the driver’s side bench.

“I suppose I owe you two dollars and a box of cigars,” Gold figured, popping up his collar to obscure his face from curious stares.

“You owe me a lot more than that,” David lightly joked as he stuffed a cigar in his mouth. They looked like they were going to have a night on the town, not hauling a body into the East River. “I saw one of those fancy prams at Best & Co. I wouldn’t mind taking little Emma around in one of them.”

“Consider it done,” Gold told him as the carriage jerked in motion.

The two of them sat side by side as they crossed downtown Manhattan. Gold’s eyes followed the row of gaslights lining the busy sidewalks. Even in the middle of the night, the tenements were buzzing with business and revelry. It wasn’t so long ago he lived among them, in a one room flat with fifteen other men with fleas crawling over his skin. Surrounded by his old neighborhood, discussing about the deeds they did in the glow of gaslights, Gold felt like his old self again. He wouldn't welcome that old bloke back.

“What I don’t get, sir,” David began, breaking Gold out of the heavy thoughts of his past. “Why didn’t you get rid of her when you had the chance? You knew she was a threat, or you wouldn’t had thrown money at her to leave New York.”

David was right, but the cowardice left behind by the slap of his father’s backhand kept him hesitant.

“I don’t like killing women,” Gold reluctantly confessed.

David cruelly laughed. “Man, woman, red, blue. What does it matter?”

“It’s not that simple,” Gold explained as he uncomfortably shifted in his seat. 

“So, you fucked her. That was before, this is now,” David argued.

“It still makes things complicated,” Gold told him. He never loved Zelena, but he knew her in a way he shouldn’t know her. It blurred the lines between coldblooded murder and ambitious plotting.

“And by not gettin’ rid of her, she came back to New York to muss things up.”

Gold felt his muscles in his chest clench from the hard impact of his truthful words. Still, he wouldn’t let some boy, thirty years younger, upbraid him.

“I’m not asking for your advice,” Gold snapped back.

David grabbed the reins with both his hands and leaned forward, placing his hand on Gold’s shoulder with a firm grip.

“I’m reminding what you have to loose if you keep making mistakes,” David admonished in a seething voice. The charming family man was gone, instead he saw the Bowery boy who’d killed a man with his bare, bloody knuckles. “Don’t fool yourself, you are what you are and sparing the bitch ain’t gonna change that. You take care of your business then you leave it at the door.”

He knocked David’s hand off of his shoulder with the side of his arm. “You think I’ve grown soft because I got a girl?” Gold sneered. 

“Why else?” David questioned. “When they hold you in their arms and they give you that look, and you know the one I’m talking about, you can’t help thinking you can find a bit of redemption in them. That maybe you can change your ways and lead a good and honest life for them. Especially when they give you a kid,” he paused, pointing his finger at him with cold certainty. “But men like us don’t get to be where we are by being good and honest.”

“I know who I am,” Gold told him as he focused his eyes on the road ahead of him. “And I know there isn’t redemption for me.”

“Then why are you hesitating?” David asked, clearly confused.

“Because,” Gold began, lowering his head a pulled out his pocket watch. It was the only thing left he had of his father, and the bastard paid for it with the money he earned selling his mother. Gold carried it to remind himself of the man he couldn’t dare become. “If I killed her I wouldn’t be any different than my father,” he said as he caressed the engravings on the facing with his thumb.

David lightly chuckled. “No matter how hard we try, we all become our fathers.”

It was a truth that Gold wasn’t willing to accept. 

“It's easier killing men,” Gold confessed as he snapped his watch closed and dropped it into his pocket. “I know the evil that men are capable of. When I look at women, all I can see is my mother and sisters’ faces and remember it was a man that put them in the ground.”

“And you don’t think women aren’t capable of the same thing?” David inquired as he pulled back the horses' reins for the carriage to come to a stop. “They don’t have a woman’s ward at Sing-Sing for just petty thieves and working girls who forgot to pay their fines.”

Gold examined the building, a three-story tenement the dim glow of kerosene lamps behind grimy windows. The narrow street was canopied with dozens of sheets hanging from slacked clotheslines, obscuring the full moon in the starless night sky. It was noisy for midnight, with the buzz of different languages being spoken, the sound of the sheets rippling in the breeze, and the echo of horseshoes clicking upon cobblestone streets.

“Alright, lets get this over with,” David groaned as he slid down from the driver’s bench. Gold was able to get down without help, but David stood by to assist him if he should loose his balance. 

The remained silent as they entered the building. It was busy, women carrying buckets from the only sink in the building and men lined up to use the washroom. No one paid them mind as they climbed the stairs.

Gold was sweating by the time they reached the third story. David was shooting him concerned glances, but he refused to let the pain show in his face. Regaining control of his aching leg, the two of them slipped down the hallway towards Zelena’s alleged apartment. They froze when they spotted a sliver a light peeking between the threshold and the open door. David and Gold remained quiet, exchanging suspicious looks before they dared to investigate. With caution, Gold pushed the door open with the tip of his cane. David slipped entered first to investigate. 

A kerosene lamp on the kitchen table filled the two-room flat in a warm glow. It was hot and stuffy with the windows were closed and the rising heat from the bottom floors. Gold removed his bowler hat and wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve as he entered the apartment.

“Ah, sir,” David called when he walked into the bedroom. “I don’t think you have to worry about her any longer.”

Gold immediately rushed towards the bedroom. He stopped at the doorway when he caught the flash of red curls. It was Zelena, lying on the cot in a fetal position, lifeless and stiff. David made a noise of disgust when a cockroach crawled out of her open mouth.

“How?” Gold asked, appraising the corpse from the doorway.

David bent forward and pried open her clenched hand. He removed a crumpled piece of paper from her stiff grip. As David flattened out, Gold noticed it was a note. 

“'I love you,’” David recited before showing it to him. The script was messy, but the words were legible. “I guess she offered herself when she realized that selling stories to the papers wasn’t gonna get you back.”

When he looked down at her lifeless body, he couldn’t help but recall the touch of her warm skin and the smell of her hair. He didn’t love her, he never loved her, but it didn’t mean that she didn’t love him. It was a sick, maddening love that he knew well.

“It was revenge,” Gold determined in a cold voice.

“Revenge for what?” David questioned with doubt as he crumpled the note and slid it back into her hand for the coppers to find. 

Gold looked away, unable to stand the sight of green eyes staring into nothingness. If it weren’t for him, there would be life still in them. 

“To show me what I’ve done to her,” he coldly replied.

David placed his hands on his hips as he stared down at her corpse in awe. “Well, ain’t she a spiteful bitch.”

Gold didn’t have time for his morbid humor. He looked around, trying to find the method she used to end her life. Her wrists were uncut and there wasn’t a drop of blood to be found. Glancing around the flat, he found nothing but mouse droppings, soot from the kerosene lamps, and cockroaches scattering into dark corners.

“How did she die?” Gold muttered to himself as he limped into the kitchen.

The table was set, as if Zelena was preparing for guests. There was loaf of bread, uncovered for the cockroaches to feast on, and two mason jars half-filled with tea. One of the glasses had a bit of rogue on the rim. He touched both the glass and found it cold. It had been a while since the visitor left. 

“So, you wanna go out for a pint?” David asked with a chuckle.

It couldn’t have been that simple, Gold assumed as his eyes searched the kitchen. Zelena hadn’t lived there long from the looks of the bare cupboards. However, there was a cut of meat wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. Why would she buy an expensive piece of meat if she planned on killing herself? Unless it wasn’t planned, Gold darkly thought. 

“Boss,” David firmly said. “The witch is dead, who cares how she offed herself.”

“Something isn’t right,” Gold claimed, turning around as if by magic he’d find the answer. But there was nothing in that flat but a dead Irish maid and two dangerous men that shouldn’t be there. 

“Uh, I’m still going to get that pram for Emma, right?” David asked, placing his hands on his hips as he waited for Gold to end his search.

He groaned, putting on his bowler hat as he gave up. David was right, Zelena was dead, and the less he knew the more plausible deniability it gave him.

"Lets go," Gold ordered as he limped to the door.

When they exited the Orchard Street tenement, leaving behind another body in his wake, Gold didn’t sing a song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a deleted scene from the chapter over at my tumblr, if you're interested in reading it. [HERE](http://morganfir.tumblr.com/post/150778305738/riverside-park-chapter-8-deleted-scene)
> 
> I'm really sorry if there is quite a lot of mistakes in this chapter, my brain isn't working today (medical reasons.)
> 
> **Historical Notes**
> 
> Dr. Sara Josephine Baker was a known lesbian and lived with another woman, a British author and suffragette, when she retired from medicine.
> 
> Evelyn Nesbit was involved in the scandal known as the "Crime of the Century." I could write paragraphs about what happened, but I don't have the character limit to go in-depth. It's a fascinating story that you should google if you don't know about it. All I have to say is poor Evelyn Nesbit.
> 
> I know nothing of anatomy, but Gold has "Drop Foot." I tried researching "Drop Foot" in 1900 medical texts for period treatment and I couldn't really find anything, so I'm going off what we know about peroneal nerve injuries.
> 
> The club Gold is in with Sidney is the Metropolitan Club, founded by J.P. Morgan and was known as the "Millionaires Club" because of all the robber-barrons that became members. It also had a Ladies Annex, one of the first for a gentleman's club in that era. It's still in NYC at 11 East, 60th Street. I use to pass it a lot on my way to the subway. It's a cool building.
> 
> The Gentleman's Directory was a real book where "they would not learn where Central Park or the Croton Aqueduct were from the book’s contents. What they would find, the book stated, were facts about New York hospitality “which could not be procured elsewhere." It was basically a directory of all the brothels in NYC and "managed to include more than 150 establishments — 23 on West 27th Street alone — in the book’s 55 pages of commentary and advertisements." [source](http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/01/26/on-the-records-a-well-preserved-roadmap-to-perdition/?_r=0)
> 
> I collect Brownie cameras. They're cool, inexpensive pieces of history that helped bring photography to the masses. Sometimes you can still fit a 120mm spool of film in certain models and use them. They're basically pinhole cameras.
> 
> Zelena's address is today's site for the New York City's Tenement Museum. :D
> 
> Best & Co. was a high-end children's department store that was in business from 1879-1971.
> 
> find me at <http://morganfir.tumblr.com/>


	9. Here Comes the Bride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys totally get the joke in the chapter title. ;)

He was struggling to catch the both the sprig of lavender and the stem of the calla lily with his lapel pin. He cursed when he dove the pin through the starched fabric and pricked his finger.

“Here,” David said as reached up to take over the difficult task. “Calm down, would ya?”

Gold exhaled through his nose as relented to David’s attention and sucked the blood from his finger.

“Mary says she looks beautiful,” David shared as he slowly slipped the pin through the flower stems and into his lapel. Gold lifted his chin as he tried to slow his beating heart. It almost felt as if he was awaiting his first trial and not a wedding. His wedding, he corrected.

“As she should,” Gold said with a nod, not knowing what else to say. Belle deserved to have everything she wanted on her wedding day.

David stepped back and Gold lowered his chin to spot the bouquet perfectly pinned on his suit. With his fingers itching, he palmed his already slicked-backed hair before he drummed his fingertips on the metal rung of his leg brace. 

“You need a drink,” David said, turning around the pluck the crystal tumbler from the nearest table. 

Gold shook his head as pushed away David’s insistent hand. “I want a clear mind,” he said with another sigh. It seemed that’s the only way he could breathe, with anxious sighs and gusty exhales.

David elbowed him with a wink. “Gonna run her ragged, huh?”

It was a comment worth of his fist, but he let it slide knowing it was the whiskey talking.

“I want to remember everything,” he confessed as he surrendered to his lust. He patiently waited for the honor to call her Mrs. Gold, so he wouldn’t dare ruin it by drink.

“Alright, let’s get the show on the road,” David announced before clapping his hands together.

Gold would have married her anywhere, in a crowded courtroom or in a cramped chapel on the side of a dusty road. When he saw the fragrant bouquets dripping from the porcelain vases and moiré silk streamers hanging in scallops across the doorways, he immediately knew that Riverside Park was the perfect venue for their blessed day.

It was strange as he entered the parlor room. It was a room that had witnessed murder, comforted grievers, housed holiday celebrations, and warmed a pair of lovers by its fireplace. Everything happened in this room, it only made sense that it would hold a wedding. And maybe, if he were extraordinarily lucky, it would hold a baptism. 

The room had been cleared for the occasion and filled with rented chairs decorated with purple and white bows. Sadly, half the chairs were empty. Despite publishing an excellent retraction, Sidney’s damage was done. Most of the wedding invitations went unanswered, and those who ended up attending were her friends from the NAWSA. It didn’t help matters that only David, Mary, little Emma, and an empty pram occupied his side. 

The Justice of the Peace was standing at the front of the room. His eyes were drawn to the wall above the fireplace. Belle had filled the empty space left behind by the Sargent portrait with their engagement photo. He done what he’d set out to do, he’d replaced the shadow of her father’s memory with their love. And he did love her, more than he thought he ever could. 

Gold joined the Justice at the front of the room, clutching both his hands on the cane to keep himself from fidgeting in nervousness. Jefferson changed out a cylinder and The Prince of Denmark’s March filled the room. 

A ragged breath escaped his parted lips when he saw Belle glide into the room. Her wedding gown was made from buttery silk satin that glimmered as she moved. It was simple, unadorned with ruffles or beading, with a sweetheart neckline and a billowing gored skirt. Her hair was pulled into a stylish chignon with a lily pushed behind her ear. She wore her mother’s diamond collar and carried a bouquet of lavender and calla lilies.

Gold tried to remember everything as she slowly walked down the aisle; the blush in her cheeks, the shy glances, how the silk looked alive as she moved, the way her chest rose and fell against the tight edge of her neckline, and how he could only catch the tips of her dainty feet from under her hem as walked.

When Belle joined him, she gave her bouquet for Dr. Baker to hold. Unable to take one hand off the cane in fear he’d loose his balance, she kindly placed both of her hands over his.

“Hello, Diana,” he whispered without thinking.

Lavished by his compliment, her rosy blush deepened.

Gold was thankful that they didn’t have a religious ceremony, because he was becoming impatient for the end where he could kiss her. On request, they had changed the vows from “honor, love, and obey” to “cherish, love, and keep.” When they made it to the end, Gold slipped the gold wedding band beside her engagement ring.

“You may kiss the bride,” the Justice cheerily declared. 

Without a string quartet, the applause was the soundtrack to their first kiss as husband and wife. Belle slipped her hands into his tuxedo, holding his sides as tilted back her head. Leaning over his cane, he pressed his lips to hers. It wasn’t the ring, or the signature at the bottom of the marriage certificate, it was only when he kissed her that he felt that their lives were forever bound together.

Belle pulled away when pellets began to rain down on them. Facing the small audience, Gold let out a merry laugh when he saw all the smiling faces as they threw handfuls of rice at them. They might not have filled the room with dollar princess, but they did share the moment with people who were truly happy for them.

After that, everything became a blur. While the guests enjoyed oeuvres and drinks in the dining room, he sat in the gallery for several photographs with Belle. It was hard not to burst out laughing when the photographer directed him to look more austere.

Gold puffed out his chest and dug his thumb into his waistcoat pocket. Belle immediately snorted.

“Are you drunk already?” Belle joked with an impish smile from her seat.

He relaxed, leaning down to show her the joy on his face. “I’m just happy.”

They both flinched when the flash of light of his magnesium tray before erupting into merry laughter.

Returning to the wedding party, Gold immediately plucked two champagne flutes from a nearby table and handed one to his new wife. 

Belle had organized an informal gathering, only serving fine liquor and bite-sized portions that could fit on a cheese plate. The gallery was filled with music played from the phonograph and the roaring laughter sparked by David’s lowbrow jokes. Gold enjoyed the evening filled with drunk suffragettes far better than a five-course dinner surrounded by families included in Astor’s social roll.

Throughout the evening, Gold conversed with his guests while playing with buttons on the back of her dress. Perhaps it was the drink or the boisterous company, but it was hard not to take his hands off of his new wife. With a quick word to Jefferson, the champagne stopped flowing and the phonograph was retired for the evening.

Drunk as a skunk, David came up and patted him on the shoulder. “Now,” he began, wobbling as he pointed his finger at him. “She’ll be all timid cause it’s her frust time. Knowing her kind, she probab—probab—probabably got raised up to be all dainty about it, but they want just as bad as we do.”

“Alright, David,” Gold said, slightly shocked by his inebriated state. He patted him on the shoulder and he removed the glass of scotch from his hand.

“And…and…” he stopped, looking suddenly confused. “What was I talkin’ about again?” 

“You were talking about going home, with your wife and daughter,” Gold said in a convincing voice.

“Ah, yes!” He said, abruptly turning away to find his wife and daughter.

When the alcohol stopped being served, the mansion quickly cleared out. Dr. Baker offered to take the party over to her house since several of the suffragettes were clearly not ready to go home. Mary had to pull David by the back of his jacket to keep him from walking away. Sober and having to look after _two_ infants, he fetched a hackney for Mary and gave the driver a few dollars to see them home. 

When Gold returned to the foyer, Belle was waiting for him at the bottom of the staircase. Her face was flushed and there were sweat stains seeping through the fabric of her wedding gown at her armpits.

“Would you like to have another piece of cake?” Gold asked, not knowing what else to say.

“No, I would not,” she replied, frank. 

“Oh,” Gold said as his eyes began to dart around the house for another activity for them to do.

“Ruby is drawing me a bath,” she shared in a soft voice as she raised her hand to rest on her waist. “Wait for me in my room?” Her voice was hopeful, if not slightly timid.

Feeling like a fool, Gold didn’t dare risk opening his mouth and answered her with a brisk nod.

When he entered her room, he found it remarkably different than the last time he entered. The ditsy wallpaper was replaced with soothing evergreen damask, her childish dolls were absent from her window bench, and she had added an additional nightstand besides her bed. Everything in the room had been changed except for the ornate vanity in the corner of the room, but it finally felt like Belle’s room.

They had agreed that Gold would move in after the wedding, but they hadn’t discussed on sharing a room. It seemed that Belle had made that choice for him as he was spotted empty drawers, barren shelves, and half cleared surfaces through out her room.

His pajamas were already at the foot of his bed, folded in a neat square. He supposed it would be more practical to undress from his overly starched tuxedo than remain in it. The only thing he didn’t remove was his leg brace.

Months ago, he felt so certain and confidant that this night would come, but that was before he saw her for more than just a thing, a treasure he needed to steal. Oh, Gold was sure that his love would be requited. He just couldn’t comprehend that her love would devour him and make his body burn bright. God, he was already half hard just in anticipation.

Sitting on the edge of the bed as he tried to calm his racing heart. He heard the click of the door and rushed to stand. Without his cane, he used the nearby bedpost to steady him as he leaned all of his weight onto his good leg.

Belle slipped inside the room, her long hair obscuring her face as she closed the door behind her. He ran his hand through his messy hair when his eyes drifted over her loose-fitting lace robe. Suddenly it was hard to think, let alone speak. He promised himself that he’d be more forward, but transformed into sputtering idiot.

All his nervousness disappeared when she slinked her arms around his torso and hugged him tight. He stiffened, positive that she felt his hard cock through his loose fitting pajama pants as she pressed her body against him. He went from half-hard to throbbing within minutes.

Belle raised her head, propping her chin on his breastbone and made no mention of his aroused state. Instead, she let out an inebriated giggle. 

“I think it’s you that’s slightly drunk,” he teased as he played with the damp ends of her hair.

“Maybe,” Belle slyly said, looking bashful yet mischievous all at the same time. “You were the one that kept topping off my glass throughout the night.”

“Was I?” Gold played ignorant even though they both knew it was the truth.

Belle frowned before she looked down at his leg. “You still have your brace on.” 

Gold fixed his eyes on a little porcelain figurine and tried to bury the feeling of shame. “I won’t be able to…I can’t…”

“We can’t with it on,” Belle bluntly replied.

“I just know you have expectations and I can’t…manage to do things…in the traditional sense,” Gold finally confessed. 

“Hey,” she said, gently shaking him out of his gloom. He tore his eyes away from the trinket and caught his vibrant wife staring up at him with a smile on her face. “That doesn’t matter to me, you know it doesn’t,” she told him in a kind voice.

He cupped her warm cheek with his clammy hand. “I just want it to be perfect for you.”

“It will be, because I’m with you,” Belle promised before biting her lower lip, looking utterly kittenish. There wasn’t a flicker of nervousness in her eyes, nothing like the dainty flower he thought her to be. He should have known, especially with her insatiable kisses she showered him with when they were alone. If anyone was sexually frustrated, it was Belle.

“Sit,” she ordered as she withdrew her hands from around his torso. Like an obedient servant, Gold lowered to sit on edge of the bed. His chest was rising as her hands went to the ties of his pajama pants. “Would you like me to remove your brace?”

Gold gulped before he nodded.

With a smile, Belle pulled the ties to loosen the waistband. Hooking her fingers around the band, she pulled them down his legs. The bulge in his boxers was quite evident, yet she kept her eyes focused on her duty. She was careful, not to letting the fabric of his pants snag on the bolts and rough edges of his brace. After she draped his pajamas over the foot of her bed, she began to unfasten the leather straps securing his leg in the brace.

“Sweetheart,” she called him with concern as her hands ran over irritated flesh.

“I was standing too long today, it happens,” he said, hoping to ease her worry.

“Why didn’t you say so?” Belle asked as she slid the last loop through of the buckle.

“It’s nothing,” Gold answered, more firmly, not wanting her to fuss over something ordinary for him.

“I promised that I was going to take care of you,” she said as she slowly drew the mechanical device from his leg. Gold sighed with relief, feeling free and ten pounds lighter. 

Belle rose to her feet, lightly swaying as the liquor made her head light. 

“You do,” he said as he reached for her hand, steading her. “You take such wonderful care of me.” 

He gulped when she began unbuttoning his pajama top. She pushed the fabric over his shoulders, baring his scar-ridden torso. He wished he was more than just mangled flesh and atrophied limbs, but he wished many things for her besides his own vanity.

Belle giggled, loosing balance again and catching his shoulders to find her center again. He smiled, finding her adorable in her slightly inebriated state. She reminded him that their first time should be light and jovial, and not full of his dispirited self-loathing. 

“Why don’t you come sit beside me?” Gold asked, guiding her to the edge of the bed. “Tell me your favorite part of the day.”

“I think we’ve talked enough, don’t you?”

Before he could say a word, Belle raised both of her hands to the lace bow that held her robe closed. Gold hissed as she slowly plucked the ribbon until it slid from the lazy knot. He could see that Belle was smiling, but his eyes were entirely focused on the deepening neckline as the robe slowly drifted apart. His breaths came heavy as he saw the dip of the side of her breast and the patch of dark curls between her milky thighs. It lasted but a second, but it was forever sealed in his memory.

The robe effortlessly slipped off her shoulders and pooled at her feet.

“Belle,” he croaked as his eyes raked over her naked body.

His view was obscured when Belle dipped forward and captured his lips in a kiss. This wasn’t anything like their chaste pecks on the cheeks and heartfelt embraces in the privacy of the parlor room, her kiss was sloppy from the drink and her eagerness. When she sought his mouth open with the tip of her tongue, he knew that she was no blushing bride to be coaxed by an experienced, yet patient gentleman. Gold discarded his propriety like an evening coat and grabbed her by the waist to pull her close. His sudden movement surprised her and she exclaimed with an adorable mew.

Belle grabbed his shoulders to steady herself as she perched on his lap. He groaned when he realized there was only the thin layer of his boxers that kept them truly apart. Madden by her closeness, his hands went everywhere, roaming up her back, threading through her hair, tickling her sides, and most deliciously, squeezing her firm rump to pull her closer to him.

Soon, she overpowered him, and without a fight he fell back onto the mattress. The bed rocked under their weight and the wooden frame creaked from the impact.

“Belle,” Gold gasped as he drew away from her wet kisses. “I need to move up the bed.”

Panting, Belle nodded before she rolled onto her side. He scooted up towards the head of the king-size bed and propping his head on a stack of pillows.

Without shame, Belle crawled to join him. It was impossible not to stare as her breast hung heavy and moved with each slide of her knees. She plopped down beside him, pressing her naked body against his side, and flatted her palm on his quaking abdomen.

When they first confessed their love, she explained that Dr. Baker enlightened her on the methods of family planning. 

“Are you,” he paused, “are _we_ going to wait for children?”

Belle hid her embarrassed smile behind her fingers. “Dr. Baker gave me a pessary,” she confessed before laughing at the awkwardness of the moment. It was different than the passionate kiss they shared seconds ago, but it wasn’t mood altering. “Do you mind?” Belle meekly asked, 

“Not terribly, it would be nice to have you to myself for awhile,” he figured.

Belle giggled as her hands daringly dusted the skin above the waistband of his boxes. Admiring her constant boldness, Gold wondered if bridal showers weren’t such delicate occasions filled with silly games and awing over silver tea sets she’d never use.

“Would you permit me to ask how is it that you are so…so…” he stopped when he couldn’t find a way to answer his curiosity without sounding rude.

Belle raised an eyebrow. “Forward?”

Gold sighed at her lack of offense and quickly nodded his hand. Belle bit her lip, staring at him for a moment, before she reached back to her nightstand. She pulled a book from the dark recesses of her drawer. It was a thin book, cheaply bound with ragged edges. It lacked a title on the spine and the cover.

With curiosity, Gold took the book and turned the front cover. His eyes widened when he read the title, _Fanny Hill, or Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure._  

“Belle, this is banned,” he quickly said without thinking. 

“I know,” she replied in mischief.

Gold deeply inhaled when he flipped through the cheap pulp pages. His cock throbbed when the book seemed to fall open to certain parts of the book that included illustrations. The printed etchings left absolutely nothing to imagination and Gold felt scandalized for her.

“Where did you get this?” He asked as he examined the detailed drawing of Fanny in bed with her lover Charles. The position looked terribly uncomfortable, but it allowed the reader to see _everything_ at a voyeuristic viewpoint.

“I bought it from a not-so-respectable book dealer when I was sixteen,” Belle told him in a husky voice. 

Gold nearly dropped the book in his lap. “Sixteen?”

Belle bit her thumbnail before she nodded. There wasn’t any embarrassment in her eyes, just girlish mischief.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting this,” he confessed. Throughout their courtship he thought her completely ignorant of sex, except maybe for the technical details explained by Dr. Baker. He would have never guessed she’d been reading smut long before she met him.

Gold pressed his lips together as he appraised his current situation. Belle was beside him, shamelessly naked, as he stared at pornography while dressed in only his boxer shorts. This was certainly not the wedding night he imagined.

“I’m afraid I can’t think,” he blurted out.

Belle began flipping through the pages of her book. When she found what she was searching for, he secured the edges with his thumb. She’d turned to a drawing of Fanny sitting astride a lover, his legs spread to show the reader every part of his engorged cock and sack as he entered her quim.

“This one is my favorite,” she teased him as she dropped her hand to caress his remaining nipple with her fingertips. 

Her suggestion couldn’t be clearer.

Gold closed the book and slipped it on the nightstand. His chest was tight, as if there wasn’t enough room for his racing heart and his expanding lungs. It was a thrilling sensation, one which he hadn’t felt since he was a wild and undisciplined boy. When he laid his head back on the pillow, Belle was pushing up to kneel on her heels. His chest was rising and falling as her eyes drifted to his boxers. Reaching out her hand, she brushed the few stands of hair that trailed up to his bellybutton.

“Can I undress you?” Belle asked in a throaty whisper. 

He impatiently nodded.

“You’re not upset, are you?” She asked as leaned forward, her breasts swaying, and worked at slowly unfastening the catch in his waistband. “About the book?”

With his heart in his throat, he couldn’t speak. She paused, looking up to catch him shake his head and seemed slightly relieved by his answer.

“At first, I wouldn’t even look at it,” Belle shared as she returned to her task. His cock twitched when he felt her fingers brush over his budge. It was impossible not to as she worked at the placket. “Then I became curious and started reading, then I couldn’t stop!”

Gold gulped, his mind straining between the fantasies her words evoked and the reality of her unbuttoning his boxers. It was impossible to think, and more impossible to speak. 

Moving down the bed, Belle dragged his boxer down his legs before discarding it over her shoulder. When she returned, his thick cock was lying on his flat stomach. She stared at it, unafraid and unashamed. He remained still, allowing her to look as long as she wanted of his naked body. After all, he’d been staring at her breasts nearly the entire night.

“They had paragraphs written about this,” she said and she reached out and brushed her hand over the underside. He clenched the muscles in his backside as he jerked his hips off the bed, yearning for more than a dusting of her palm. She answered him by sliding her hand between his legs and gently cupping his balls. He knew her touch was only exploratory, but he still burned from it.

While it was lovely, this wasn’t the way he imagined the night progressing. His leg put a damper on this, but it didn’t mean that he couldn’t leave Belle withering in pleasure. 

“What else was in the book?” Gold wondered as he sat up to capture her seeking hand with his.

“Almost every wicked thing you can imagine,” she replied in an amazed whisper. 

“Well, did she ever put her hands on the headboard?” Gold asked, matter-of-fact.

Belle raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Is that a euphemism?”

He smirked and gestured towards the head of the bed. Belle shot him a curious look before she dared to comply. Without hesitation, she placed both her hands on the edge of the headboard as she stood on her bent knees. From this position, he was finally able to admire her pump little rear and the adorable pair of dimples on her lower back.

“Is this it?” Belle asked, sounding skeptical.

“Almost,” he said, as he scooted lower down the bed. “You have to spread your knees a bit more.”

“Is this a jest?” She asked as she peeked her head over her shoulder.

“I thought Fanny Hill did practically everything that was wicked,” he playfully touted. 

“Well, I don’t remember her doing anything of the sort in the book,” she haughtily replied. He waited until she relented, rocking back and forth until she spread her knees a sufficient length apart. 

“Now,” he said, trying to sound serious. “It’s truly important that you keep your eyes closed.”

“This _is_ a jest,” she declared.

“But if you move, you’ll never find out,” he countered.

She closed her eyes and remained still as he requested. Keeping the mattress as still as possible, Gold arranged himself to lie directly between her spread knees. Afraid that she might dart, he immediately drew up his nose between her wet lips before flicking his wet tongue against her entrance. 

With a scream, Belle jerked and instinctively recoiled from his touch. 

“Mr. Gold!” She exclaimed as she glanced down at him, completely shocked.

“Mrs. Gold,” he replied as he wiggled his eyebrows.

Belle stared at him for a few beats of his heart before she slowly lowered herself over his face. He encouraged her by curling his hands around her thighs. With a hum, Gold felt her wet cunt brush against his mouth and the tip of his nose. His grip grew firm, anchoring her in place as he lapped her dripping entrance with his tongue. 

Even though her lush thighs muffled his ears, he was certain the whole house could hear her cries of pleasure. He sucked at her clit as he rocked his chin against her. When he slipped his tongue into her slick entrance, he buried his nose into her folds. The whole experience reached new heights when she shamelessly began to rock against him, seeking her own pleasures from his willing tongue.

Oh, he could do this forever! She was so soft under his tongue, so wet and hot, and tasted divine. 

When she came, one of her hands dropped from the headboard and fisted a handful of his hair at his crown. She made such sweet, incoherent noises as he felt her whole body shutter and brazenly pressed her quim hard against his mouth. However, he didn’t get her into that position to stop just when she came. He had to lick up every last drop until she was begging for him to stop. 

Gold let go of her thighs and she swiftly retreated as if she was still at risk of his devilish tongue. She collapsed beside him, relaxing as her body twitched in the aftershock of her orgasm.

Opening her eyes, she eyed her come that was covering his nose, lips, and chin.

“Taste what pleasure I brought you,” he said before he bent down to kiss her. At first she didn’t receive him with a full welcome, but then she tested her taste with a flick of her tongue before she granted him full entrance to her mouth. When he was satisfied, he pulled away. He propped himself on his bent elbow, staring down at her as the desire in her eyes dwindled, but never died out completely.

“No, I can’t say that happened to Fanny Hill,” she finally confessed as she palmed back her hairline. It was a comforting gesture rather an attempt to tame her wild curls.

He never intended to have her sit on his face, it was only a lusty dream he fantasied about. Maybe something he’d dare suggest once the honeymoon was over and they both lost their timidness with each other. But perhaps Belle wasn’t entirely as innocent when it came to matters of the flesh, not with her secret love of erotica. 

“This rouge,” he said, drawing his finger over her flustered cheek, “it suits you best.”

Belle smiled sheepishly before hiding it behind her fingers. “You think you’re so clever.”

“I do,” he said with a nod.

Slowly, he slipped his finger from her cheek, down the curve of her chin, along her elegant neck, across her breastbone, and then dragged it in lazy spirals around her left breast. She hissed in pleasure when he flicked the pink nub with his finger, and he used that as permission to use her flesh for his own pleasure. He might be older than her, but turned into a fascinated teenage boy as he molded her soft flesh in his large palm. He was transfixed, watching them change shape as he squeezed them.

“I want you to tell me the first time you thought of me,” he said, plucking her nipple between his thumb and index finger. “The first time you imagined me your bed.” He leaned forward and flicked his tongue against her nub. He smiled when she the sensation made her jolt. “Imagined me between your legs.” 

Belle combed her fingers through his hair before he descended upon her breast. She cried out, but didn’t pull away as he dragged his tongue in circles around her areola.

“I— _ah_ ,” she sighed as he gave her a good suck to show her what promises he’d deliver if she obeyed him. “There’s a scene in the book— _ah_ —where Fanny catches her— _oh my_ —her lover with the maid. So she— _ah_ —seduces a footman and—” Belle cried when he pulled his nipple between his teeth. He shook his head side to side before releasing it, only to soothe her with the flat of his tongue.

“Keep going,” he said, as he became her faithful listener.

“He finds Fanny with him and spurns her— _oh_ —and I imagined it ended differently,” she confessed, humming as he shifted to suck on her neglected breast. “I-I wanted him to come in and— _ah_ —make her his again. When I played it out in my mind, saw your face.”

He lifted his head, intrigued. “Really?”

Belle briskly nodded. “I stared at your crotch for a week.” 

A hearty laugh escaped his throat. “Oh, you naughty little thing!” Gold exclaimed as he rolled on top of her. She screamed, probably letting the whole household know what an attentive lover he was. Let them whisper about how good he took care of his bride. The cook was probably already knitting a layette.

He kissed her again, lowering herself over her with enough weight to feel every inch of her skin, but not enough to crush her. While he loved the idea of her sitting on him while the made love, he wouldn’t be able to feel her. He needed to feel all her, to be inside of her while having her close and safe.

Gold certainly fulfilled his promise. They’d filled their wedding night with the most lewd and pleasurable. Now it was time to complete his last promise, to fuck her with his hard cock and make her like it.

“Belle,” he softly said as pulled back. “Climb over me and lay on your side.” It sounded more like a question than he intended.

Belle nodded, so assured that she didn’t even ask why. Gold remained still as crawled on her hands and knees over him.

“The other way,” he said when she began lowering on her side to face him.

She did pause this time, but eventually she turned her back towards him. He rolled on his side, resting his bad knee on top of his good, strong one. When he nudged her to bend her knees, he saw her patch of curly hair peek between her thighs. The sight was so racy that his heart skipped a beat. He reached out, running his hands from her thigh to over her rump.

She turned her head, glancing at him over the curve of her shoulder. He answered her curious look by moving up the bed to spoon her. He immediately knew that this was the position they’d first make love in when he felt her so close against him. 

“Is this alright?” He asked, hoping she knew that this was the position they’d truly become husband and wife.

Belle made an unintelligible moan before she nodded in agreement. 

Gold took a deep breath as he grabbed his cock, just under his head, and pressed it between her wet lips. She moaned again, and did something he didn’t expect her to do, she lifted her knee towards her face and opened her lovely quim wide for him. 

“God, you’re beautiful,” he groaned after seeing her bold movement. He was thankful for it, because he knew he wasn’t going to be able to enter her without assistance.

Very slowly, he pressed himself into her entrance with a guiding hand. He exhaled as he slipped his tip inside of her and lost his train of thought. He went slow, listening to any sounds of resistance, but all their foreplay had made her slippery and he sunk right in. A ragged sigh escaped his parted lips as her tight warmth enveloped him.

“Do like the feeling of my cock inside of you?” Gold questioned, pushing as deep as he could go.

“Yes!” Belle cried, and he swore she got only wetter.

Reaching out, he curled his wet palm over kneecap and guided it backwards.

“Oh!” Belle gasped as he rested her leg over his bad thigh. 

Perfectly connected, he eased beside her. He snaked his hand over her waist and sought out one of her lovely breasts. He held it, doing nothing but supporting the weight of it in his palm. Honestly, he could stay like this forever, as he had never felt so soothed by another person’s touch. Gold wished he could view more than just the side of Belle’s face as he made her completely his. But the sweet noises she made, the whimpers and the hitches in her breath, was all he needed to know of her pleasure.

As an experiment, he rocked his hips back and then dipped back into her.

“Ah!” Belle screamed, a mixture of a cry and a raspy sigh. She urgently sought his touch, clasping his hand tighter to her breast.

Belle was absolutely dripping, her sweet wetness drenching his cock and staining the mattress. It was near impossible to ignore his leg, turn her over, and fuck her hard. But Gold couldn’t, he wouldn’t, not to his beautiful bride.

It was difficult to thrust in this position, so he lavished her with slow, intention rolls of his hips. He’d draw a little of his cock out before he’d leisurely pushed it back inside of her. As she melted into his touch, Belle greeted each of his movements with similar motions of her hips. It was lovely feeling soft ass brush against his lower abdomen as she searched for that deep, piercing feeling again.

Because she was so wet that there was very little friction, keeping him from reaching that brilliant pinnacle of ecstasy that all humankind yearned for. Yet, he knew she was getting close by feeling the muscles in her back tensing, her hand growing tight over his, and her shallow breaths quickening. He rose, leaning against a bent elbow to looked over her shoulder to watch her come. Belle’s mouth went slack, her eyes clenched close as if she was in pain, and she jutted out her chin as if she was praying towards the heavens. It was everything he’d ever dreamed, and more.

“Please…please…” Belle muttered as he continued to gently make love to her. He saw it her face, the mixture of pleasure and pain as he continued to fuck her as her orgasm ended. “I can’t…I can’t…” 

“You can,” he said, encouraging, but went still to obey her wish. 

He lowered his arm, leaning forward to comfort her by kissing her neck. It wasn’t so much kissing as it was licking and sucking. She was trembling as she came down from her orgasm. After her breath had slowed and the tension in her muscles dissipated, he began to rock his hips again.

Belle rolled her head forward and muffled her scream with her pillow. Her fingers contracted, her nails breaking the skin as they raked down the back of his hand. Her whole body was as tense as a knot, but she didn’t dare push him away.

She was more vocal this time, moaning with every slow, slight thrust. It was exactly what he needed to start building his own orgasm. He began to massage her breast, gripping it tight before releasing it, then massaging it in gentle circles. The fact that he could do it now, touch her in ways he dreamt of whenever he liked—and when she pleased—was pushing him nearer towards hedonic delight.

“I’m going to come, Belle,” he told her, barely able to control the rising pressure he felt in his cock. “Can you feel me come inside of you?” He questioned as quickened his pace, desperate to reach that plateau.

His lusty words must have been delicious torture to Belle’s ears because the sounds she made afterwards was the tipping point he needed to come. The first stream of come was the most gripping, making him loose his breath. He strained the muscles in his legs as he tried to seek out as much depth inside of her as he could. Just when he drew the breath he needed to fill his lungs, he felt another pulse of semen surge from his cock. It wasn’t as near powerful as the first, but it still erased all of his thoughts and seized control of his tongue. 

“I can feel you!” Belle screamed as her slick walls of her quim contracted all around him. “Oh, oh, that’s so wonderful!” 

He stilled, basking the glow of his dissipating pleasure. Much to his frustration, his cock softened and slipped out of her. Exhausted, Gold slipped his arm from their embrace and rolled onto his back. He felt the mattress rock as Belle twisted around and draped her body against his side.

Gold remained still as the last flickers of pleasure fizzled out. It was replaced by a hum of contentment as Belle propped her head on his scarred chest. Needing more of her, he pulled close for a proper cuddle. Even their post-coital snuggle was utterly blissful.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” Belle asked, her voice hoarse from her uninhibited screams as they fucked. 

“What is?” He asked, finding his voice sounded the same. 

“How you turn into a completely different person,” she said, quite casually.

Gold gulped, wondering if he’d gone to far with his lust with his youngish bride. 

“I feel like I should be repulsed. If we were sitting in the parlor, having a cup of tea, I would be horrified if you even suggested that I should…put my hands, uh, on the headboard,” she said, her delicate manners returning even if she was still dripping with his come inside of her. “Then suddenly, in the heat of the moment, you let go of all your inhibitions and all you want to do is just _feel_.”

Gold knew exactly what she meant. How a person could be completely respectable and chaste, then offensively lustful and prurient.

“There isn’t a corset ridged enough to correct a woman’s most basic needs. To be loved utterly and completely,” he explained, raising his arm playfully brush his finger against her nose, “from head to toe.”

Belle yawned, signaling her drowsiness. It was contagious, causing him to let out one that rivaled hers in noise and length. Gold went slack as he let his eyes drift close. The last thing he heard was his very tired, but satisfied wife telling him that she loved him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG guys, so close to 150 kudos. You guys are the best! Seriously.
> 
> When I was researching this fic, their age difference reminded me of President Cleveland and his wife Frances Folsom. There's a lot of similar parallels. So, the changes in the vows are inspired by the changes Cleveland made in his wedding vows to his wife Frances. 
> 
> It was hard to get my muse to shut up and get our newlyweds to finally have sex. So I threw in Fanny Hill and they finally started to stop talking. I don't know why I always enjoy my heroines to have a secret stash of erotica, maybe I'm just projecting my own teenage experience with smutty fanfiction and providing my heroines a historical equivalent. 
> 
> Um, yeah, those illustrations by Edouard-Henri Avril are totally porno-riffic. Google at your own risk.
> 
> Only 3 more chapters to go!
> 
> find me at <http://morganfir.tumblr.com/>


	10. Andrew Lister

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **warning: mentions/references to sexual violence.**

 

Thank you [candytalk404](http://candytalk404.tumblr.com/) for this wonderful and awesome fanart!!!  
My words cannot express my gratitude I feel in my heart for your wonderful creation!

 

* * *

  

Gold drifted in and out of slumber, never fully stirring awake. Somehow, during the night, they had returned to their previous position. He held her soft body close to him, comforting himself by holding her breast. As soon as he recognized their closeness, he fell back into a dreamless sleep. When he finally awoke, he stretched out his sleepy limbs and felt nothing but cold tangle of bedsheets.

He groaned, rolling onto his back and rubbing away the crust from his eyes. When his vision cleared, he saw Belle standing over a trolley, pouring coffee from a silver teapot. She was dressed in her informal tea gown, most of her skin covered by the modest wrap. He already mourned the sight of the lacy kimono from her wedding trousseau. 

“Good morning,” Belle said, radiating utter happiness. Happiness he put there—no, it was happiness they made together.

“Come here,” he muttered, his voice scratchy from the early hours. Gold reached out, yearning for her body again as he woke up half hard.

Belle chuckled as she picked up the steaming cup of coffee by the saucer and brought it over to him. Her movements were graceful, hardly ratting the porcelain as she crossed the room. Probably a lesson picked up from her years in finishing school, when she should have been learning classic literature or geography.

He scooted up the bed, propping his torso upright against the pillows. He welcomed her back their bed with his arms held out, but Belle offered him the cup instead.

“We have to be at the pier in two hours,” she said, giving him a playful, yet scolding look.

Gold ran his hand over his face while he groaned. Clouded by his want of her, he’d forgotten all about their honeymoon.

“I don’t understand why we arranged our wedding to be the day before we set sail,” he wondered, completely serious. How was he supposed to present himself in public as a gentleman when all he wanted to do was ravish his wife?

“Because it’s romantic!” Belle claimed, gushing with excitement. “We begin our married lives with travel and adventure!”

Gold raised his eyebrows. “I doubt you’ll find it romantic when you’re stricken with _mal de mer_ ,” he replied, sardonic. He blew on his coffee before he took a sip. It was still hot enough to scald the roof of his mouth.

Belle rose from the bed, pulling her messy braid over her shoulder as she went to pour herself her own cup of coffee.

“We should still be in bed,” Gold argued. He grew impatient and began blowing on the hot coffee, thirsty for the strong taste and the extra perk he needed in the morning. He’d rather earn his morning pep from his wife, but settled for the coffee instead. “Preferable naked,” he frankly added. 

“We’ll be in the middle of the Atlantic for six days, surely the ocean doesn’t change that much,” Belle figured as she placed a small biscuit on her saucer. “We’ll find other ways to spend our time.”

Gold snorted, she was still oblivious what he had prepared for their marriage bed, even after all the orgasms he’d given her.

“Until we both have to prepare for dinner,” he replied with dread. Having to prepare every night for formal, five-course meals would likely be an irritation he’d rather do without. 

“We’d have to leave the room sometime!” Belle declared, mildly shocked.

“I think I’ve proved last night that I have fantastic stamina,” he saucily replied, wiggling his eyebrows before taking a sip of his coffee.

Looking over the rim of his cup, he saw Belle stand silent, blinking rapidly as she held a hand over her likely racing heart. Feeling pleased with himself, Gold turned his attention towards his coffee.

There was a light knock at the door. Realizing he wouldn’t have a morning quickie with his bride, he reached for the robe that was draped over the side of the bed. He slipped it on, hiding most of his scars from view. When he was done, Belle opened the door for her lady’s maid to enter. 

“Morning, miss,” Ruby said in a jovial manner.

“Madam,” Gold corrected, but not in a harsh way.

Both of their eyes snapped to stare at him as he leisurely slipped his tea.

“Yes, of course,” Ruby said with a quick nod. 

“Forgive him,” Belle pleaded, but her eyes told him that she was slightly flattered. “He’s prideful.”

“Of my bride? Oh yes,” he said with a charming smile. “I’ll be reminding everyone for some time that my days of bachelorhood are long gone.”

Belle didn’t hide her smirk as she walked over towards her vanity. She sipped into her cushioned stool and lifted a lid to one of her many jars. The way the vanity was angled, he could make out Belle’s reflection from his seat. He watched, transfixed as Ruby transformed Belle into a fashionable heiress. 

“Quite fancy for boarding a ship, don’t you think?” Gold inquired as Ruby pinned a braided switch over the twist of her bun.

Belle caught his stare in the reflection as she slathered cream over her delicate hands.

“I won’t be the only heiress on board,” she reminded him. 

Gold pursed his lips as he fell into deep thought. The last time he was on a boat, he was squeezed into steerage and he hadn’t made the crossing since then. While there was a stark age difference between them, Belle was far more knowledgeable about the finer points of polite society than he. 

“But you shall put them all to shame, nonetheless,” he declared with unwavering confidence.

Growing shy, Belle looked down as she fiddled with her fancy jars.

It was an enlightening experience watching Ruby dress her mistress. There were so many layers to her attire that he wasn’t sure if he accurately counted them. She wore a pair of bloomers under a short chemise, then laced in a ridged corset with garters to hold up her stockings. A corset cover went over that, along with several layers of starched, lacy petticoats. Ruby chose a lace blouse with a high neck for to wear, discreetly recognizing the love bites he left behind. Belle asked for traveling suit, a cornflower blue skirt with a matching bolero jacket.

As Ruby was adjusting her wide brim hat to rest perfectly on her bouffant, there was a knock on the bedroom door. Belle ordered him to enter. 

“There is a visitor to see you, madam,” Jefferson said as he crossed the room to hand her the calling card. Belle held the edges between her fingers, blinking in deep thought before taking a sharp inhale.

“I’ll receive him in the parlor room, Jefferson,” Belle told him before placing the card on her vanity. Ladies often liked to keep calling cards, compile a diary full of them with little notes or add them to scrapbooks, but this one seemed different.

As Ruby carefully slipped the ornamental hatpin through the buckram, Jefferson left with a nod.

“Who that?” Gold asked, sliding his empty cup onto the nightstand.

“Someone who probably wants to wish me farewell before we leave,” Belle replied with a smile. She spun around on her stool, turning her back on her vanity. “I’d like Jefferson to wait on you.”

Gold scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t need help,” he insisted, rather coldly.

“This isn’t for you, this is for him,” Belle explained. “Jefferson was my father’s valet, it’s unfair to him to keep him as footman where there is now a master of the house. And if I do keep him in a lower position than he’s trained for, he might seek employment somewhere else and I’m quite fond of him.” 

Belle was quite cunning the way she phrased her words to win the argument.

“You make it impossible to say no,” he told her, still resentful of having a servant wait on him. 

Belle remained silent, shooting him a look as a mother would a sulky child. She rose from the seat, coming over his bedside to place a chaste kiss on his cheek before slipping out the bedroom door.

Years ago, he'd be able just to grab his cane and limp over to the bathroom. Unable to fasten his brace without his shoe, he had to drag his dead leg behind him towards the master bath like an invalid. That was the moment he realized that Dr. Baker's suspicion would eventually come true, one day he would be in a wheelchair. Trying to rise above the fear, Gold ran the hot water and plugged the drain. Too impatient for the clawfoot tub to fill, he took a quick bath in only several inches of water. When he came out of the bathroom, Jefferson already had a suit hanging over a valet stand.

With a relenting sigh, Gold relented to have the young man ease him into the pressed suit. Jefferson worked quickly, as if he knew that Gold didn't care for his attention, but didn't slack on his meticulous care. The only thing he wouldn’t let him assist with was fastening his leg brace. As Jefferson brushed the microscopic flecks of lint from his shoulder, Gold spotted the calling card on Belle’s vanity. Abruptly, he stepped out of Jefferson’s reach and grabbed the square of cheap paper.

 _Sidney Glass, New York Times_

Gold crumpled up the card and hurled it across the room. “Jefferson,” he nearly growled as he marched to the door. “Come with me.”

He didn’t have David, but Jefferson was strong enough to hurl the asinine hack out on the street. Gold descended the stairs in a rush, letting Sidney hear the heavy click of his cane as the prelude to the pain it would inflict. He’d just polished his gilded hilt, but he didn’t mind bloodying it up again. He had to have a death wish coming into his home, speaking to his wife, and saying things that shouldn’t be said.

As he turned the corner into the parlor, his heart leapt into his throat when he saw Sidney Glass sitting across from Belle, who was attentively listening to his every word.

Sidney drew back, alarmed at his sudden intrusion to their private conversation. 

“Jefferson, would you leave us please?” Belle asked as she folded her hands in her lap. His valet nodded his head before leaving the three of them alone in the parlor room. 

When Gold would enter the room, Belle would light up with joy at his arrival. Instead, she remained strangely aloof, as if he was still her father’s attorney and nothing more. He could imagine all the accusations Sidney was tossing at her, all his vehement suspicions and claims of blackmail. All it had to take was a flicker of doubt in Belle’s mind for all of his work to go up in smoke.

“He needs to leave,” Gold said, trying to sound nonchalant but failed miserably. He sounded menacing, a part of his true nature that he never wanted Belle to witness.

“Not yet,” Belle replied, turning her head aside to look intrigued. “Please, Mr. Glass, go on.”

Sidney shot Gold a wary glance. “I think it would be better if I spoke to you in private,” he told Belle.

“Certainly a man as the right to defend his honor?” She plainly said. 

Gold felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. It took all of his self-control not to throw his cane in the air, grab it by the hilt, and swing it at the newshawk. Instead, he clenched his jaw as he raised his chin to endure his slander. He wouldn’t allow anger to slip from his perfectly crafted mask, and just maybe, he could convince Belle that they were nothing but cruel lies.

Sidney gulped, his adam’s apple bobbing before he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 

“The matron at the boarding house described a man of middling age, well dressed,” Sidney paused, shooting him steely glare, “and spoke with a Scottish accent entering the room right before Mr. Durand returned. That morning he was found dead with a needle stuck in his arm.” 

“Gaston…” Belle leaned forward, her lips parted as her eyes searched Sidney’s face for the truth. “Gaston’s dead?”

“An overdose of heroin, but Gaston wasn’t a heroin user. None of the pharmacies around his boarding house ever said he came in for it, and there wasn’t any additional needle marks on the corner’s report,” Sidney explained.

“Mr. Durand was also a gambler and a fraud,” Gold argued. 

Sidney raised his thick eyebrows in mild curiosity. “And you know that how?”

Falling silent, Gold shifted his weight as he adjusted his grip on his cane.

“He was ashamed to tell me the truth,” Belle surprisingly replied, her voice heavy with deep sorrow. She leaned forward, placing a hand over her chest as if she was holding her broken heart together. “He wrote me a letter, telling me he ran away with another woman, that way I’d move on instead of feeling guilty for not helping him.”

Sidney looked dumbfounded. “Pardon?” 

“He came to me often, needing a few dollars here and there. I thought he needed supplies for his art, but—” Belle swiftly looked away as she held her hand over her mouth to muffle a grieving cry. “He killed himself because he saw no way out of his gambling debts! The shame destroyed him! I should have helped him!”

Gold almost sighed with relief. Belle hadn’t even considered Sidney’s claim that he was at the boarding house on the night of Gaston’s murder. Denial was a powerful tool, one he’d use to his advantage.

“You’ve upset my wife,” Gold scorned. 

“Please, Miss French—” Sidney protested as he fished his hand in his trouser pocket to draw an ink-stained handkerchief into his hand.

“It’s Mrs. Gold,” he tersely reminded him as he swiftly crossed the room, pulling out his neat, pristine white square of linen to hand to his wife. Belle took it, dabbing her wet eyes before holding it under her sniffling nose.

“And your maid, Zelena Boyle, do you know she’s dead as well?” Sidney hastily inquired.

Belle dropped her hand, growing quiet. “Zelena?” She asked, her voice quaking. She quickly shook her head in disbelief, still clearly doubting Sidney’s words. “No, you’re mistaken. She left, months ago.”

“She came back, Mrs. Gold,” Sidney told her with a convincing nod.

“And what Mr. Glass is forgetting to share is that Zelena sold him those awful lies about you,” Gold said, reaching down to her his hand upon her shoulder in comfort, but also a sign of his constant presence in his wife’s life. Sidney might control the conversation, but he was the master of Belle’s heart.

“Yes, Miss Boyle was the one that told me about your hysteria,” he confessed, unapologetic. “But it was Mr. Gold that blackmailed me, demanded to release Miss Boyle’s address or he’d report me to Comstock’s goons! The very next day, she’s found dead in her flat!”

“An unfortunate suicide,” Gold countered with a shrug. “Zelena was a troubled woman.”

“You and I both know it wasn’t a suicide!” Sidney declared with zealous conviction. He raised his arm, pointing his ink stained finger at him. “You killed her. That’s what you do to anyone who threatens you, like Mr. Durand, Miss Boyle, even Mr. French!”

Belle sat there, silent and still, as she bore the shock of Glass’ truthful words.

Gold's father was changeable as a summer storm. There were moments where his family was quaint, maybe even happy. They’d sit at the table, enjoying a rare meal, when his mother would say something benign. Maybe she’d remind him about the bad weather, or cracking a joke about butcher. Somehow, her father would twist her words, hearing something that wasn’t there, and he’d strike her dumb. His mother would just sit there, falling silent by the shock of his jarring blow. Trying to survive, Gold pretended he didn’t see anything and continued eating his meal, hoping his father wouldn't turn his violent wrath upon him. 

Without thinking, Gold’s hand recoiled from her shoulder as if his touch was poisonous, as if he was the one that struck her dumb. He wouldn’t dare watch that same horrible look cross Belle’s face and stand idle, like he did with his mother all those years ago. He wasn’t a scared little boy anymore.

“If you won’t leave now, I will make you!” Gold furiously threatened as he marched towards Glass, readying himself to punch the smug look off of his face.

“You killed her father, didn’t you?” Sidney insisted as Gold quickly leaned over his cane and seized a fistful of his jacket.

Gold sneered as he yanked him to his feet, ignoring Belle’s startled yelp. He might have a limp leg, but he wouldn’t allow Sidney to waltz into their home and ruin the life he’d spent so long building. Sidney Glass was unshakable in his theory, desperate to be the knight in shining armor who'd pulled the cotton wool from Belle’s eyes, and Gold had no time for shortsighted heroes.

“You’re a stupid man,” Gold cruelly hissed as he brought Sidney’s face inches from his own. He looked down at him, making it clear that he could squash him like a bug under his polished oxford shoe.

“Please, stop it,” Belle weakly pleaded as she placed her hand on Gold’s shoulder, failing to pull him back.

It irked him how Sidney remained confident and unafraid. He should be terrified, because Gold was going to make sure that he wasn't the only one leaving Riverside Park on one leg.

“You did it before, Mr. Gold,” Sidney said, raising his eyebrows as he appraised his murderous eyes. “Or should I call you Andrew?”

It took only two syllables for his grand mirage to vanish like a dusty cloud of coal smoke rising from a chimney. Gold staggered backwards as the name resurrected a man he thought long dead. He lost his balance as his leg brace caught a snag in the carpet. It was Belle’s hands that guided him towards a seat before he collapsed on the floor. When he fell back into the chair, he gasped as the wind was knocked out of him. 

“Andrew Lister,” Sidney said as he straightened his suit with swift jerks. “That’s your name isn’t it? It’s certainly not Mr. William Gold, because that would make you eighty-one years old.”

Belle rose from his side, slipping her hands from his tense shoulders, and took a step to stand between them. 

“Sir, I am not one of your lowbrow readers,” she sternly reminded him. “Do not talk to me as one.”

The insult wiped the goading smile from Sidney’s lips. He raised his chin, pretending like it didn’t sting, but it visibly nicked his armor. 

“Mr. William Gold was a major stockholder of the Central Pacific Railroad. His primary residence was in Newport, but had a house in New York for…how should I put it? Pleasure?” Sidney’s insinuation was as subtle as a horse crushing a groom’s foot under its hoof. “One day, William Gold boards a train with his valet heading to Newport for the summer, except he never gets off of it. In fact, no one ever sees him again.” 

“Point,” Belle began, briskly, “you should get to one.” 

“Miss French,” he said, persisting to use her maiden name to badger him, but that name sucked the last shred of fight left in him. “For two years, an Andrew Lister was listed on household accounts as William Gold’s valet. After some digging, I found passenger records of a fifteen-year-old Andrew Lister disembarking at Ellis Island, roughly twenty years ago. The records list him as Scottish.”

“There are many immigrants arriving at Ellis Island everyday, and yes, some from even Scotland!” Belle hotly argued while she placed her hands on her hips in frustration. “What it is your trying to imply?”

Bending down, Sidney flipped open a worn, leather satchel and removed a cabinet card.

“This is the real William Gold,” Sidney said, showing her a picture of a middle-aged man posing in his Confederate greys and his saber at hip. Oh, William Gold loved that saber.

As soon as Gold spotted the card, his chest painfully constricted as he relived the heinous years of dubiously consented torture in a matter of seconds. He felt every scar anew until his whole chest felt aflame.

“Andrew Lister is your real husband,” Sidney declared with overwhelming confidence. “He killed William Gold and stole his identity to abscond with his fortune.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Belle insisted, palming the card tight in her hand. “I know you care little about me, so why not just publish it for the whole world to read?”

“I believe,” Sidney stopped himself, taking a deep breath to calm his fervor. “I _know_ that he is going to do the same to you. He killed Gaston Durand, Zelena Boyle, and I’m pretty sure he killed your father so he could marry you. If you get on that boat, you’ll never get off of it.”

Belle tilted her head aside, raking her fingers over the edge of the worn card. “Is it a crime for a man to change his name?” She casually inquired.

Sidney tugged at his tight collar with his finger. “No, I don’t—” 

“And there’s a legal term,” she interjected, “in order to prove a murder you must present a body. It’s called Hap…Hay…Ha…” Belle raised her hand in the air, as if she could touch the word that was on the tip of her tongue.

“Habeas corpus,” Gold answered. It was a knee-jerk reaction, but it was a doorway back to the present. A present where there was no fear of being flayed, or burnt, or singed, or whipped, or suffocated, or drowned. A safe, warm place filled by a love of a kind woman. 

Belle snapped her fingers, boastful. “Yes, habeas corpus!” 

Slowly, he transcended the horrors of his past and focused all of his attention on his wife. She stood between them with a strange smile on her face. It wasn’t pleased or cheery, nor any of the other smiles he’d seen her wear before. It was arrogant, almost egotistical. 

It wasn't Belle.

Gold blinked as her elegant hands tore the photograph in half.

“You have nothing, Mr. Glass,” Belle coldly told him as she threw the torn pieces to his feet. “And if you dare publish your slanderous garbage, or take your unfounded claims to the police, my _husband_ will have your job. I’m sure you’re aware of what happens when people cross him.”

Belle’s words threw Gold into a stupor. Even after all the evidence, she was defending him? No, she hadn’t spoken a word honoring his character. She was threatening Sidney, even after the truth of his crimes was revealed. 

“I see,” Sidney replied, his leery eyes darting between them. 

Gold’s mind was too muddled to discern why Sidney was suddenly so apprehensive. He watched, dumbstruck, as Belle gracefully bent at the waist to pluck a bell from the table. With a ring, the parlor door swung open and a footman stepped over the threshold. He stopped several paces away from the door, attentively waiting on his mistress. 

“Would you please escort Mr. Glass out,” she commanded with a stiff upper lip.

“Certainly, madam,” he replied before he gestured with his gloved hand towards the foyer. “This way sir.” 

Sidney snatched his satchel with an exasperated huff and turned on his heel. As he left, he kept peeking over his shoulder as if he half-expected them to drive a knife between his shoulder blades. When he left the room, Gold sunk deep in his chair and lifted a shaking hand to rub at his temples. Daring to look up at his wife, he caught her smoothing back her hairline and checking that her hatpin was still secured. The mantelpiece clock chimed, alerting them that another hour had passed. 

Belle gasped. “We’ll be late for boarding!”

She sounded more horrified at missing their ship than the revelation of his insidious and repulsive betrayal. Gold lips parted in awe as she knelt to pick up his cane from the floor and brought it to his side. 

“Gold.”

His lower jaw quivered as she spoke his name, his false name, but the name of the man she married and loved. Was it possible that she loved him still? Why else would she speak a false name?

She lifted his shaking hand and placed it over the hilt of his cane. Her touch was soft, yet reassuring. Belle gave his hand a squeeze before she rose from his side.

“Your wife will be very cross if we missed our ship.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MWAHAHAHAHA! 
> 
> I don't think there's any historical notes needed for this chapter.......so this is strange.
> 
> Again! Thank you [candytalk404](http://candytalk404.tumblr.com/) for your wonderful artwork. I'm feel so blessed that you took the time out of your day to create something inspired by my fic, and you did such an amazing job, it's perfect. The whole outfit is on fleek. Like...that's AMAZING. Thank you. *gush*


	11. RMS Lucania

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warning:** references to sexual violence.

She was smoothing the wrinkles in her skirt when he found the strength to stand. He wobbled, unsteady from the blow of Sidney’s words, but steadied himself with a hand on Belle’s shoulder. He didn’t mean to use her like a piece of furniture, forcing her to carry the burden of his weight, but it soothed his racing heart to feel her like a sturdy steel beam under his hand. 

After finding his center, Gold lowered his hand from her shoulder and braced his weight against his cane. Fatigued and confused, he designated his wife as the mistress of his body and mind, following her to the door in a daze. Jefferson was waiting, holding his bowler hat and billfold in his hand. He was thankful when he spotted the folded Cunard tickets in his outreached hand, as he’d completely forgotten about them.

“Thank you,” he said as he slipped the tickets into his breast pocket, still in disbelief that he was still setting sail for his honeymoon.

The ride to the pier seemed longer than his two-week voyage to America. He watched Ruby and Belle flipped through a guidebook, pointing out details in pictures and discussing all the places the wanted to go. Gold fought the urge to box Ruby’s ears and demand his wife to confess that she was in denial, or worse, a mad woman. It would make sense, he sadly thought, as she must be a mad woman indeed to knowingly sit beside a murderer.

When the carriage came to a full stop, Gold glanced out of the window. The RMS _Lucania_ was leviathan of black-painted steel. Round, glossy potholes lined the steep, curved sides of the ship and two funnels, lacquered in bright red, towered over the promenade deck. It was much different than the small three-mast clipper he crossed the Atlantic in.

Gold got out of the carriage, helping Ruby out first before holding his hand for Belle to take. For a moment, he thought she wouldn’t, but she did. He gripped it tight, afraid that it was a phantom touch.

The pier was buzzing, a crowded sea of bowler and wide-brimmed hats, uniformed men, and mountains of steamer trunks. Giant cranes hurled roped nets crammed with mail sacks and marked wooden crates into cargo hulls. It was so noisy, Gold had to strain to hear Belle and Ruby over the commotion.

Ruby quickly pulled over a stevedore and pointed to the four, finely-made steamer trunks tied to the roof of the carriage.

“My madam needs her trunks in her room before embarking,” Ruby sternly ordered at the stevedore. “Not in the cargo hulls! Cabin twenty-one. Not twenty-two, not twelve, twenty-one!” 

Gold pulled out a two-dollar bill and gave it to the stevedore. “The lady gets her trunks,” he told him before handing him the folded dollar.

“Yes sir,” he said, whistling for a trolley to be brought over.

Second and third class passengers waited in a winding line to board the steerage entrance, while a ramp, covered by a fringe canopied, stretched to the promenade deck for first class passengers. Without thinking, he placed a protective hand on Belle’s back as they snaked through the crowd. 

“Tickets!” A man asked with a thick Scouse accent.

Gold pulled the folded tickets from his breast pocket and handed it to the Cunard officer. He checked them over before he wished them welcome and a pleasant trip. Belle picked up her skirt in one hand while the other brushed along smooth the railing. Gold extended his hand, guiding her as they climbed the steep incline. It was unlikely she would slip, but it was an irrational precaution he needed to fulfill as her husband.

They passed through the main entrance, two footmen held open a pair of doors to an ornate vestibule. Belle glanced in awe at the elaborate moldings covering the white ceiling and sleek teakwood-paneled walls. When they strolled into the parlor room, Belle stopped at the bottom of the grand staircase. It was craftsmanship worthy to be admired, with sweeping wooden banisters arching over gilded fleur-de-lis ornaments. Gold would be amazed at the luxurious ship if it weren’t for the overwhelming attention he was paying to his wife.

“This is so lovely,” she commended, pressing her gloved hand to his chest.

“Miss French!” A feminine voice called across the busy parlor.

He spotting a youngish woman with fine features, wearing an expertly tailored traveling suit in a dusty, grey gabardine. Her stiffly boned and heavily starched garment spoke more about her personality than the pleasant smile she wielded.

“Or should I call you Mrs. Gold?” The woman teasingly said.

“Miss Mills!” Belle gasped in surprise.

Miss Mills sauntered over with her hands held in a welcome. They leaned forward, kissing each other on the cheek as if they were old friends. He knew everything about Belle, but had never heard of this Miss Mills.

“Sweetheart, may I introduce Miss Regina Mills,” she began as she linked their arms together. “We went to Comstock together.”

“Ah,” Gold muttered, too amazed how his wife was holding onto him to greet this supposed friend of hers. 

“Forgive him,” she kindly said, almost fawning over him as she stroked a hand on his shoulder. “He’s a bit timid of sea travel.” 

“Terribly sorry to hear that. Oh, and I am sorry I couldn’t make the wedding,” Regina said, slightly sincere, as she placed her hand on her arm. “Mother wouldn’t let me after all those horrible stories in Glass’ column.”

Belle stiffed at the mention of his name. “He did write an retraction.”

Regina briefly looked at Gold before she nodded. “Oh course,” she said, raising her hand from Belle’s arm before dramatically waving it in the air. “We all knew they were nonsense. Your not the first debutante he dragged through the mud.”

“Yes, I do remember that he once wrote about you going to tea with hay stuck in your hair.” Belle leaned forward, placing a pensive finger on her chin. “What was your groom’s name again?”

They looked at each other before they fell into fit of forced laughter. 

“It’s so good seeing you again,” Regina said with an artificial smile. 

“Likewise,” Belle replied as she began to pull her husband towards the staterooms. “Excuse us, but we must find our cabin. Perhaps we’ll see you for dinner?”

“I’m already looking forward to it,” Regina said, nodding to both of them before she picked up her skirts to ascend the grand staircase. 

The ship was still docked, but Gold already felt ill. His stomach was queasy and his brow was covered in a cold sweat. He found himself pulling at his collar, desperate to free his neck from the suffocating piece of starched fabric. He didn’t think much when Ruby opened the door to the extensive staterooms. Gold was a frugal man, but if he was going to be stuck on a ship for six days, then he was going to be in a proper room and not a steel box with a porthole. He booked a suite that included a sitting room, a bedroom, a dressing room, a water closet, and a private promenade deck. It also had a small cabin for Belle’s maid, accessed by a door in the sitting room. It was not the most expensive room on the ship, but it was close enough.

The sitting room had teakwood-paneled walls and a domed, crystal chandelier set in a molded medallion. It was also crowded with furniture in that neoclassical French style that permeated the best establishments in New York. A fainting couch lined a wall, a pair of armchairs were arranged beside the mock fireplace, a round table encircled by four fauteuil chairs sat in the middle of the room, and above the fireplace was a rectangular mirror set in a carved, gilded frame. 

Belle let go of his arm as she entered, darting around the room to study everything with a keen eye.

“I can’t believe we’re on a ship!” Belle exclaimed as she drew the long pin from her wide brimmed hat. She placed the pin on the table with a clink before carefully removing her hat, trying her best not to ruin her elegant hairstyle. 

“It feels like home, madam!” Ruby added, too excited not to interject. She pointed to the stack of trunks near the bedroom door. “They brought your trunks!”

Gold spotted the decanter of scotch on the table and nearly said a blessing. With how much he spent, he was grateful that the ship actually filled the room with something he needed. Pulling off the stopper, he accidentally lost his grip and filled the glass to the brim. A stranger might have assumed it was his first time drinking when he sputtered as the liquid burnt his throat and shocked his already bilious stomach. By the third gulp, the alcohol had mollified his edgy nerves. He was done pretending and donning polite smiles like everything was fine. Nothing was fine. Their lives were so far from fine. 

“Belle,” Gold said, his voice sounding graver than he anticipated.

She turned around, raising her eyebrows at the sound of his name on his lips. Even still, she acted like Sidney’s words hadn’t even touched her.

“We need to talk,” he told her with a firm look.

Belle sat down on the edge of the fainting couch before she turned towards her maid. “Ruby? Why don’t you go to the purser’s office and purchase some postcards? Then have yourself a look around the ship? Tell me if they’re anything exciting to do.”

Almost if she knew what was left unsaid, Ruby picked up her guidebook before she left the cabin. When she closed the door behind her, Gold felt a massive weight lift off of his shoulders as he crossed the room, sipping his scotch before he sat into one of the fauteuil chairs beside her. 

“Belle,” he began, but he heavily sighed, not knowing what to say. Instead, he looked around the stateroom with bafflement. “Why are we here?”

“We’re on our honeymoon,” Belle answered with an obvious laugh.

Gold winced, holding his hand up to stop her. “Belle, please, I need to know…” But sadly, he was unable to gather to courage to ask all the questions he needed her to answer.

Belle leaned to the side and she slipped her hand into her pocket. She withdrew a folded letter, worn at the edges and heavily creased. Without hesitation, she bent forward and handed it to him. Gold placed the half-empty glass of scotch on the nearby table before he slipped the envelope from her fingers. Folding back the lip, he slid the flimsy parchment and immediately recognized the ornate letterhead. 

“The Pinkertons?” He asked, shocked. Opening the folded letter, his eyes scanned the typed correspondence. It was a profile of Andrew Lister, typed up in three short paragraphs. Andrew was unimportant, so it made sense that his life could be contained on a single page. 

“After you told me about your accident, I went through my father’s files and found a mention of broken carding machine. A floor manager wrote a report for the insurance company, naming the carder involved in the accident as an Andrew Lister,” Belle explained. 

“And then you hired the Pinkertons?” He said, perturbed that some rogue detective traced through his personal history. 

“You said your name was Mr. Gold, yet the evidence said you were not,” Belle defended, growing irritated that he was the one that was upset. “I needed to know.” 

“You could have asked me,” Gold countered, holding up the letter in his hand.

“And you could have told me the truth from the beginning,” Belle snapped back before she scoffed, clearly in the right. 

Gold looked down at the letter, skimming over Andrew's time in Five Points and his master’s disappearance from that Newport-bound train.

“You never could have loved Andrew.”

“How do you know?” Belle questioned, tilting her head aside as she studied him from her seat. “It doesn’t matter, you can be whoever you want to be with me.”

“What? Belle, no!” Gold leaned forward, wishing he could crush that loving spirit and leave behind only horror and hate, that was all that he deserved. “Sidney wasn’t wrong, everything he said was true,” he forcefully proclaimed, leaving no shred of doubt for her to hang onto. 

“So, you _are_ going to kill me.”

He felt as if she’d pushed him off a cliff and he was hopelessly hanging on the edge by his fingertips. Gold propelled himself from the chair, falling to his knees with a loud thump. A splitting pain shot up his leg and travelled up his spine, but nothing was worse than having Belle believe that he only loved her for her fortune. Belle gasped, bending at the waist and holding out her hands to stop him. He bore through the pain as he crawled towards her like a wretched pilgrim seeking divine absolution. 

“Never!” He wailed, reaching out to grab her skirts with his unworthy hands. The pain grew so intense, it was impossible for him to utter a single word, instead he showered kisses on her skirt and on her hands before she yanked them away, then collapsed on the floor to kiss the tips of her shoe.

“Stop!” Belle cried, trying to peel him off the floor while pulling her boot from his lips. “You’re hurting yourself!” 

Gold froze, opening his hands to let Belle escape from his groveling attention. He flipped on his back, staring at the ceiling as he slid his aching legs straight. He didn’t think much of it when Belle slid her hands under his arms and tried with her meager strength to pull him from the floor. Propping his hand on the seat cushion, he pushed himself off the ground and allowed Belle to guide him before he collapsed into the chair.

Belle walked away and returned his glass of scotch. Gold took it, his hands shaking, and gulped down the rest of the liquor. It dulled the pain of his body, but not of his soul.

“I’d rather die than let anything happen to you,” Gold protested, anguished that she ever thought different. “My love for you was never about the money.”

“Wasn’t it?” Belle asked, still shaken from his emotional outburst. She placed a calming hand on her corseted waist before she lowered into a seat across from him. “If my father died, his entire estate would go to me. It is easier to seduce a young, impressionable nineteen-year-old then try to steal a fortune from an old, untrusting man.”

Gold stared at her with wide, unrelenting eyes. “If you suspected me, why did you even marry me?”

Belle looked away and let out a heavy sigh. “Because I didn’t care if you were after my money. I wanted you so much that I was willing to risk the possibility that you would break my heart.”

Gold squeezed his eyes tightly as his heart tore in half. He would reach into his chest, pull out his heart and hand her the other half to show her, if he could. Instead, he had to use words that Belle might not believe, and knew it was time to tell her the entire truth.

“The man I told you about, the one that mutilated me, his name was William Gold,” he began as he opened his sore, tired eyes. “For two years I let him torture me, stood idle while I let his saber slice the skin off my breast, and then I had pretend to like it when he fucked me.”

Belle frowned, growing disgusted by his repugnant words. Yet, she didn’t leave the room in horror as Gold assumed she would. Belle remained constant and unwavering, even after his horrible truths were spoken.

“When I saw the opportunity, I seized it,” Gold confessed, recalling how he pushed him out of the moving train somewhere in Connecticut. “After I killed him, I liquidated all of his accounts and used the money to fund my education. I wish I could tell you that I struggle with guilt, but I really don’t.”

“Why did you keep his name?” Belle frowned, disgusted. 

It was hard to explain how Gold morphed into a dangerous enigma, a person Andrew always wished he could be.

“Because it was easier being William Gold than it ever was being Andrew Lister,” Gold said, struggling with his tie until it loosed from his collar. “Then, one day, I just became Mr. Gold.”

There was a slight jerk before they heard the blaring bullhorn announcing the ship’s embarkation. Belle held the arm of her chair, distracted as she experienced the slight rocking of a moving ship for first time.

“You should be waving goodbye,” he said, feeling guilty for ruining an experience that was supposed to be filled with excitement and joy. She should be up on the bridge, waving her handkerchief as the ship left the dock. 

“The only person I have to wave goodbye to is sitting besides me,” Belle answered, growing annoyed by his self-deprecating manner. “You wanted to talk, so let’s talk.”

Gold couldn’t endure her admonishing stare and reached over to snatch his cane from the floor. Rising to his feet, he limped over to the decanter and poured himself another glass of scotch.

“Maurice took the most precious thing I had,” Gold explained as he tipped the heavy decanter over the rattling tray. The whole boat was humming as the furnaces burnt coal to fuel the propellers. He could feel the floor vibrating underneath his feet and saw the furniture slightly tremble.

“Your leg?” Belle questioned, luring him out of his thoughts.

“It was more than just a limb, it was my livelihood. Without that, a man has nothing,” he told her, eager for her to understand the hardships of a pauper’s life. “I was so blinded by revenge, I swore that I’d take away the thing he loved most.”

“His fortune,” Belle coolly replied.

Gold spun around, holding the glass against his chest as he pointed her finger at her. “You.”

Belle sat motionless as her eyes widened in surprise. It was if all those months of courting her and their beautiful wedding night never occurred. All this time, she was under the assumption that everything he did was for Maurice’s fortune. 

“I was the conservator to your estate, I could have stolen every penny as soon as Maurice died,” he vehement insisted. “When I met you, that day you came home from Coney Island, it ceased being about the money.”

Belle looked torn between belief and suspicion. Gold rose his palm over his grieving heart, ready to prostrate himself at her feet again if there was a chance they could go back to how things used to be.

“Since that day, I’ll I ever wanted was you. You were beautiful, and kind, and good, and you’re everything a monster like me shouldn’t have. I don’t—” His voice cracked as a tidal wave of wretchedness capsized his heart. “I don’t deserve you.”

His face twisted in pain when he realized there was no way they could ever go back. Belle would seek an annulment claiming fraud, and he’d have nothing but a pair of silver cufflinks and a framed picture of a badly drawn still life. 

Without warning, Belle slid off the couch and knelt before him on the floor. She raised her hands and placed her palms upon his thighs, her warm touch making him jump in surprise.

“Why not?” Belle asked, her blue eyes were full of caring and unconditional love.

“What?” Gold questioned, staring at her hands on his thighs.

She kept one still on his bad leg, while she let the other hand stroked the strong muscles of his good leg. He grabbed her hands, wondering if she had gone mad. He clasped them together, preparing for her inevitable disgust.

“Because I killed your father.”

Belle tilted her head aside, raising her chin to revealing a sliver of her neck above her high collar. It was a submissive gesture, exposing a vulnerable part of her body to a known murderer. If he were whom Sidney claimed, it would be so easy to wrap his hands around her throat before tossing her overboard. It would certainly make him a very wealthy widower. But, that was never the plan. _Ever_. It sickened him to ever have the thought cross his befuddled mind. Belle wasn’t always the endgame, but she became a cherished part of his life that he couldn’t live without. 

“I don’t care,” she confessed with the lightest shake of her head.

Gold searched her eyes, wondering if that she had misheard him.

“Can’t you see me?” Belle pleaded as she drew their intertwined hands to lie on her breastbone, holding them close to her heart.

Staring deep into her eyes, he saw his own reflection staring back at him.

Like always recognized like.

The realization startled him so greatly that he nearly drew his hands away from her touch. He kept staring into her eyes, expecting the cruelty to wane before fading away, but it didn’t. It was there, woven deeply into the fibers of her being, never to be removed. He didn’t know why he didn’t see before, why he couldn’t see past the girlish dresses and innocent blushes. It was all an act.

Belle’s face turned cold as she slipped her hands from his and rose to her feet. She turned her back to him, resting her hand on the back of the armchair as she stared at the mock fireplace. 

“When he would tuck me in at night, he’d try to tickle me like I was a little girl,” she whispered.

Belle swiftly turned around, her skirts twisting around her legs. Her eyes were almost pleading with him, hoping he’d recognize the abuse when others would see none. 

“I wasn’t a little girl, I was a woman who didn’t want to be tickled, or cuddled, or made to read stupid stories about perfect girls that only obeyed their fathers! He’d get so cross if I dared to pay attention to anyone other than him! Nothing…” she stopped, placing a calming hand on her stomach as she grew agitated. “Nothing was ever enough and I _hated_ him.”

Gold sharply inhaled, not realizing that Belle had nothing but contempt for being trapped in that house to entertain her twisted father. After hearing her confession, the heavy burden of guilt crushed his heart. He balled his hand into such a tight fist that his knuckles turned white and his short fingernails dug into his palm.

“I should have helped you,” he croaked, his eyes darting the room but his vision was blurred by the rage he felt deep in his heart.

When he finally dared to look up, Belle was starring at him with sympathy. He didn’t know why she was the one comforting him, when it should have been the other way around.

“What would you have done?” Belle said, shaking her head in defeat. “The world doesn’t care about what happens behind closed doors. People would rather live in denial, to see what they want to see, than to fracture this glass palace built on morality and manners.” 

Belle’s distressed thoughts were unpolished, but they revealed a truth that he knew from personal experience. Everyone knew his father was a monster, murdering his mother’s unborn children by using her swollen stomach as a punching bag, yet all his neighbors turned a blind eye and feigned ignorance. He became horrified at the thought he was guilty of the same crime. For two years he knew something was wrong, watched as Maurice treated his daughter stranger and stranger, and he was too busy trying to infiltrate his life to even think about just forgetting about his plot for revenge to help her. 

“I knew he was treating you wrongly, but I should have done something,” Gold insisted, wishing he could turn back time and just taken Belle somewhere far away from that monster.

“You did,” Belle contended, shaking her head. “Father was never going to let me go.”

Unless he died, Belle silently added by the look of approval in her eyes.

Gold anxiously watched as she meandered around the room, reaching for his abandoned glass of scotch before raising it to her lips. After she took a sip, she grimaced as if she swallowed a gulp of anise-flavored cold medicine. 

“And Gaston?” She questioned as she deserted the tumbler on the table. Her rouge left a thin, opaque imprint on the edge of the glass. “Why did you kill him?”

His mood darkened at the mention of Belle’s former sweetheart. He hated the dead sap, but he remembered how she cried when Sidney told her that he never made it Paris.

“I didn’t kill your father just so you could run off with a boy,” he gruffly replied, wondering if his answer would finally spurn her to seek that annulment. Maurice was killed out of necessarily, mainly for the revenge, but also because the bastard would have never allowed Belle a life of her own—a life with him.

Belle found a candy dish and popped a sweet in her mouth. “And who said I was going to run off with him?” 

Gold fixed her with a guarded stare. “You did, in your letter.” 

Belle fluttered her eyelids as she traced her finger along the slick edge of the table. Gold began to examine her as if she was a puzzling piece of artwork. One of those cubist paintings where the women looked like after he’d dropped his breakfast onto the floor. Through the hazy memories, he finally saw the bigger picture. Gold exhaled, confounded as Belle unveiled her true self.

“A letter that you gave to me.” 

Belle looked kittenish as she savored her sweet. He shook his head, stupefied, as he wondered how he could miss something so obvious. The minx had been baiting him from the moment they met.

“Remember how I told you the story of Fanny’s lover, how she seduced the footman to make her lover jealous?” Belle hastily reminded, her exceptionally blue eyes staring at him in mischief. “I figured if Gaston wanted me only for my money, then why shouldn’t I use him to get what I really wanted?” 

Belle might not have been aware of his plot to murder her father, but she was carefully constructing her own exit out of her gilded cage. 

“Me,” Gold answered, raising his chin as he deciphered her motives. 

Belle looked at him as if he was grand prize she’d just won. “You.”

Gold was blinded by revenge to see that this girl had been lusting after him from the beginning. In hindsight, he was questioning nearly every moment they shared together. However, one stood out the strongest among his memories.

“After the funeral, the day I caught you with him,” Gold began, recalling how Belle had practically dragged Gaston into the parlor room for a secret embrace. He suddenly realized how Gaston received a counterfeit kiss, as it was nothing like the sweet kisses his wife bestowed upon him. Their kisses were soft and sweet, filled with love and sometimes lust. When Gaston kissed her, Belle held back and saved a part of herself that she wanted to gift only to Mr. Gold.

“You _knew_ I was in the parlor room, didn’t you?” Gold asked, horrified at his wife’s skillful manipulation.

Belle shrugged. “I’ve always been watching you, but you were too distracted to notice.”

He thought himself an adept player at the game of deception, but his little wife had outplayed him by several moves. She was a magnificent performer, even he was fooled by the charade she performed for Sidney, but she was a daughter of a social-climbing showgirl, stagecraft was in her blood. 

"You did all of this for me?" Gold questioned.

Belle pursed her lips, pondering his question before she shook her head. "No, I did it for me." 

Gold would have laughed if he wasn't so stupefied by his wife's cunning. As much as he wanted to move on, accept the things they’ve both done and continue as if nothing happened, he couldn't forget about her Irish maid. He might have been the reason she committed suicide, but he did not wield the killing stroke. He didn't know why he felt the need to exonerate himself for that particular murder when he left a trail of bodies behind in his wake. 

“Sidney was wrong about your maid,” he confessed, refusing to let his false accusations follow him to Scotland. “I didn’t kill her.” 

“I know,” Belle said with unyielding confidence. Before he could ask how she could possibly know such a thing, she answered him, “I did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys were always asking me about Gaston, why Belle didn't bring him up and maybe her eagerness to move on from him to Mr. Gold felt forced. Well, it's because there really wasn't anything to move on from. Belle outplayed the player. 
> 
> Belle didn't initially know that Gold was poisoning her father, but once she started investigating Andrew Lister and began to realize the two weren't exactly friends, she began to suspect there was foul play, but didn't care. After all, he did her a favor. I think after that, she opened herself to that morally grey area that Gold lives in. 
> 
> One more chapter to go! 
> 
> **Historical Notes**
> 
> The Campania and the Lucania were sister-ships for Cunard, and they were known as **the** luxury liners of the day. You can see pictures of the interior [here](http://www.norwayheritage.com/p_ship.asp?sh=campa) and if you're British (or have a VPN) you can watch a great video of the actual Lucania, filmed in 1901, [here](http://player.bfi.org.uk/film/watch-cunard-mail-steamer-lucania-leaving-for-america-1901-1901/). If you don't have either, you can find the video, in separate clips [here.](http://www.gettyimages.co.uk/videos/cunard-mail-steamer?family=creative&phrase=Cunard%20Mail%20Steamer&sort=best&excludenudity=true#license) From my research, the RMS Lucania didn't have private promenade decks, so consider it creative license. 
> 
> The Pinkerton Detective Agency is a private security firm that was established in 1850. They have a sorted history, between being hired by President Lincoln, to strikebreaking for robber-barons like Carnegie Steel which resulted in men being killed. Also, one of their detectives was instrumental in bringing in serial killer H.H. Holmes. So I'm sure Gold isn't happy about some Pinkerton sorting through his history. 
> 
> find me at <http://morganfir.tumblr.com/>


	12. A Quarter to Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got kinda dark and smutty....so enjoy!

Gold’s jaw went slack as his hands gripped the side of the chair. He remembered the day when they met in the Metropolitan Club, how she’d found Zelena’s address folded in his pocket. His eyes darted to the glass of scotch on the table, recognizing the shade of lipstick and the unique crescent slant of the lips. It was similar to stain of rouge he found on the jar in Zelena’s kitchen. 

“You were there,” he uttered in awe.

“Imagine my horror when I found Zelena at the address you tried to hide from me, when she told me that you’d leave me for her once you had my fortune.” Belle shook her head, ashamed at her own naivety. “I truly thought you two were making a fool out of me.”

“I _never_ loved her,” he ardently insisted.

No matter how passionately he spoke, Belle didn’t appear convinced. 

“She told me that you two would make love in my bed,” she paused, gasping for air as she tried to bottle her rage. “She knew about your scars! I know you fucked her!” 

Her words were like a cold slap to his face. Ashamed, Gold looked away after her lovely face contorted with jealousy and heartache. It sickened him to think that he was the reason she was driven to murder.

“I was desperate to have you,” he confessed, depending heavily on his cane as he struggled to stand on his weak knees. “I was willing to do whatever it took for me to insert myself into your life.”

“You slept with her so she would spy on me?” Belle asked, bewildered as she tried to find reason where there was none to be found.

“It was never love, Belle,” he paused, dragging a shaky palm over his mouth. “I wanted to touch the place you slept, linger in warmth of your private sanctuary, and leave a piece of myself behind for you to find. I was obsessed.”

Belle frowned, looking disturbed by his admission of guilt. “You’re mad." 

That was the irrevocable truth.

“Mad for you,” he affirmed, baring the last secret of his blackened soul. It was the only secret he would never be ashamed of.

Aghast at his revelation, Belle staggered backwards. Unaware of her surroundings, she knocked into the table and jolted from the shock of it. She braced a steady palm on the table while her other hand rose to settle her heaving chest. All this time, Belle thought he was an unscrupulous rake scheming to steal her fortune before running off with the help. Regardless, she would have done anything to keep him in the glory of her love. Starvation and violence destroyed his ability to feel remorse for his victims, but he could recognize the shattering weight of it in Belle’s face. Something had happened in that apartment, something that propelled Belle to leave her world of beautiful innocence and transfigure into a cold-blooded murderess.

With slow, careful steps, Gold crossed the room to console her with his presence. Belle tried to draw back from his touch, but he corralled her in between the table and his outreached hand. It was as if he was a hunter, trying to approach a startled doe with an arrow lodged in its chest.

“What happened between you and Zelena?” Gold asked, without judgment.

Belle wouldn’t look at him. Instead, she focused her stare at a spot over his shoulder as her eyes glazed over with remembrance. She lifted her trembling hand from the table and dug her hand into her pocket. She pulled out a small vial, half-filled with white powder. Poison was printed in large, black letters besides an image of a skull on the worn label.

“You remember I told you about Helen Potts?”

The bottle of poison sparked the memory of Belle’s tragic classmate, how her secret husband had grown tired of her and killed her by lacing her cold medicine with strychnine. Belle must have perceived similarities with herself and poor Helen Potts, or else she wouldn’t have ever armed herself with poison.

Gold dropped his arm, too ashamed to keep her from fleeing his nearness if she wished it.

“I began to carry it with me after I received the report from the Pinkertons,” she explained as she held the poison in her tightly clenched hand. “There was a part of me who didn’t care about being used because I loved you so, but then there was another part of me who was unwilling to die in your plot.”

His eyes widened when he concluded that she was holding the murder weapon in her hands.

“I thought she was your mistress and I—” A fisted hand covered her pursed lips as she struggled not to cry. After a few unsteady breaths, Belle lowered her shaky hand to her side. “I couldn’t stop myself! I was so _jealous_!”

Gold drew back, wondering if he heard her correctly. “Jealous?” He repeated in disbelief.

Belle pounded her fists onto his chest. He faltered, immediately taking a step back as the force of her blows. It wasn’t enough to hurt, but it was enough to rattle his composure.

“I love you so much!” She bawled as tears fell from her anguished eyes. “And there was this awful woman who knew more about you than I did! And it tore me to pieces to think that you loved her more then me!”

She huffing and howling like a woman possessed. Gold became frightened when he saw the demoness that hid underneath the fine dresses and polite manners. It became clear that he wasn’t the only one driven mad with desire.

“I poisoned her!” She confessed with wild, wolf-like eyes. “I wouldn’t let her steal the only thing I loved from me!”

In a flash, Gold dropped his cane and wrapped his arms around Belle’s waist. Gold had developed unyielding strength in his upper body from years of depending on a cane to walk. When she tried to resist his hold, squirming as she braced her forearms on his chest to push away, he kept her locked in his unyielding embrace.

“Belle,” he gruffly said as he tried to calm her down. She was hysterical, not some quackery diagnosis, where her emotions were so overwrought that she couldn’t control herself. It was apparent that Zelena’s murder wasn’t premeditated; it was a crime of passion sparked by provocation.

Nothing he could do would soothe her frantic state. Desperate to draw her away from the darkness, he tightly grasped her chin and captured her mouth with his. Belle cried into his mouth before she relaxed, surrendering to his physical comfort. The kiss was rough and crude, forcing her jaw wide as he invading her mouth with his tongue. As he kissed her, he wished he could extract her guilt and harbor it on his hole-riddled soul. It was impossible to mend the darkness that lived in her heart, but he knew he could dull the pain of her first kill. The first ones are always the hardest to forget.

Gold pulled back, his chest heaving as he licked his swollen lips. Belle was blinking away the tears from her eyes, still startled by the kiss. He could see her falling back into that dark place, filled with panic and fear, and he wouldn’t let her return.

“I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love you,” he swore with conviction.

“I’m not good,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief.

It was his fault that she doubted his words. That day in the park, Gold had confessed his admiration for her was based on her goodness, her generosity and beauty. Idolizing her as the epitome of virtuous womanhood, a ridiculous concept he finally realized, he failed to see she was just as vulnerable to the darkness as any human. He wouldn’t shun her just because she fractured a silly ideal he never should’ve carried. 

“Neither am I,” he shared. “Yet, you still love me.” 

Belle gulped as she lowered her chin. “How is it possible to have such evil in your heart, yet love so purely?”

Gold drew close, pressing her body flushed against his. He used her to keep himself balanced and she bore his weight like she was his cane.

“Nothing in this world is black and white,” he said with a languid sigh.

His body felt aflame with desire as he imagined the fury of her wild heart. He never wanted her so much as he did in that moment. He grew half-hard, pulsing as his fantasies spiraled out of control. Belle immediately felt it, gasping in shock as her wide eyes linked with his.

“Tell me truthfully,” he began, his eyes growing dark from lust, “what you thought when I told you I killed your father?”

Belle braced both of hands on the table, leaning back as Gold pressed his hardness with boldness. He wanted her to feel what she did to her, prove that everything he’d ever done had been for their love.

“Relief,” she whispered as her pupils shrunk into pinpoints. “Because I would’ve killed the bastard if you hadn’t.” 

Gold placed both of her hands on hers, bearing his weight against the table as he leaned forward. He tilted his head aside, dragging his nose along her hairline. She shivered, but didn’t pull away from his adoring touch. Perhaps, she liked the darkness as much as he did.

“And that ridiculous boy?” Gold inquired, almost playfully.

He lifted his hand from the table, steadying his weight on his good leg. He dragged it up her corseted waist to cup the curve of her breast. Belle arched her back, yearning for more than just what she felt through the stiff layers of her dress and undergarments. 

“Pride,” she spoke, half crazed with lust.

Thrilled by her answer, Gold bent forward and drew her earlobe into his mouth. She cried out in pleasure as he lavished it with his tongue, and moaned when he raked his teeth over the sensitive tag of skin.

“You were proud of me?” He whispered after let her ear slip from his lips. As he pulled back, he admired the rosy color suffusing her cheeks. He wished there was a way to capture that lovely blush for eternity, but he’d settle for their wedding portraits.

“I’m proud that my husband will do what it takes,” she brazenly confessed without a shred of remorse.

His eyes lit up with approval, pleased that he could lift her out of her guilt and accept who there were. This is exactly where she’ll remain, a constant state of apathy, too preoccupied by their love to care about the worthless corpses buried in cold soil. What a life they’d soon lead.

Gold brushed his thumb over her bottom lip and groaned with hunger when Belle opened her mouth to catch it between her teeth. Opening his palm flat against her jaw, he slipped it inside her mouth and imagined it was his cock. That moment would come in time, he promised himself, but he’d ease her into the idea by raking his thumb over her wet tongue.

“You’re my world,” Gold remarked in wonderment as he removed his thumb from her mouth with a pop. He cupped her check, letting his wet thumb slide across her skin in soft strokes. “How did I ever end up with such a woman?”

“Don’t be fooled, this wasn’t kismet,” she reminded him.

“Really?” He playfully questioned, but didn’t doubt that it was Belle always held the winning hand. 

“Yes,” she answered, grabbing the lapel of his jacket with his hands before bucking her hips against his. “I’m spoiled and I always get what I want.”

There was no way he could possibly explain his bewitchment with words. Instead, he leaned down and captured her lips again, hooking his hand around her waist to crush her against his length. Her hands slid up his chest, wrapping her arms around his neck as she rocked onto her toes. Gold stumbled from her weight, bracing his weight on the table with one hand as she pulled him into a passionate kiss. It was exhilarating, their tongues dragging against each other as he squeezed her close.

It was nothing like their wedding night, when her body was so pliable and soft under his attentive touch, and left him starving for the touch of her skin. It was impossible to feel her through all the whalebones and starched petticoats. He needed more than just kisses and rubbing his cock against her layered skirts.

Belle broke the kiss. “Gold,” she pleaded, needful. “Fuck me, please, fuck me like you fucked her.”

He didn’t know why she’d wish for such an ugly thing. Jealousy perhaps? To feel a part of himself that he gave to Zelena, or to trump her in every way? Either way, he would not give her that part himself.

“No,” Gold refused, utterly disgusted by her desire. “You don’t want me to be your whore, Belle. It’s nothing but emptiness and hollow touches.”

Ashamed, Belle lowered her head as she slid her hands from his neck.

“Oh, my sweetheart,” he cooed, finding her disappointment strangely winsome. They were perfect for each other, he thought.

He lifted one of his hands from the table to brush his knuckles along her flushed cheek. Now that the truth was revealed, they both grew excited by their wickedness. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll fuck you,” he promised, growing painfully hard at the thought of it. “But I’ll fuck you like a husband fucks his wife.”

Her lips parted as she inhaled a ragged breath. She was practically humming with anticipation and looked tightly wound like a metal spring. It would take no time at all to make his wife come, and come hard. If she wanted to be fucked, he’d do just that.

There was no way he could gather the concentration needed to remove her clothing. He saw the effort it took for her to dress, how it required four hands to lace, tuck, tie, and clip her whole garment together. But he knew that all the ladies undergarments were similar, just some more fancy than others.

Leaning on his good leg, he spun her around and guided her lean over the table. Belle cried, not as an objection, but from the shock of it. Surely, with all the dirty books she read, she knew exactly what was going to transpire.

With one hand on the table, he lifted her skirts over her bent hips. Every time he thought he had found the last layer, another petticoat would appear. Finally, he was able to spot her elegant legs, covered by opaque, white stockings and held up by silky garters. The sight would be delicious if it wasn’t for her lacy drawers in the way. He couldn’t slide her drawers down without unlatching her garters, and he had no desire struggle with the clasps. This would be the opportune time to conjure magic, but Gold wasn’t Houdini. Instead, he found the split in her lacy drawers and slid his hand between her legs. What he found shook him to his core.

“You’re so wet, how can you be so wet?” Gold raved in astonishment. She was so slick and warm that his fingers slid back and forth without any friction.

It was the bloodlust, the titillating confessions and the crowing over their kills, all done in the name of passion and love.

“You’re exactly like me,” Gold said with conviction, raising his eyes to see his face in the mirror above the mock fireplace. His cock throbbed, seeing Belle bent over the table while he stood behind her in her tangled skirts.

Desperate for more, she spreading her legs apart and rolled her hips into his touch. He wish he could suck her clit until she was senseless, show her how wonderful and freeing it embrace the devilry, but he needed to be inside of her and feel the place he called home. 

Gold struggled to hold up her skirts and unbutton himself. He wobbled, unable to stand on both legs to free his hard cock. He bent forward, cursing with shame and frustration as he basically used Belle his center. When he unfastened his trousers, he groaned when he gripped himself. It took all his self-control not to tug on his cock, determined to share his pleasure with his wife.

Belle must have noticed his struggle because she snaked one hand under her body, diving under skirts before she separated her lips with her two fingers. He groaned, watching her elegant digits frame her glistening, rosy flesh. He braced one hand on the edge of the table, mournful he couldn’t hold her the way he wanted to, and guided his cock inside of her. 

The long moan she made as he entered her was a sensual melody he’d never forget. He remained still, his chest heaving as he bathed his cock in her warmness. She was terribly tight this way, a thing he never thought possible. 

He wanted to touch skin, rub his hand all over her, and feel her underneath him. Carefully, he bent forward, daring to be as close as he could without slipping out of her. Belle braced the weight on her forearms, lifting her torso to fulfill his need. When she turned her head over her shoulder, Gold lovingly kissed the corner of her mouth. Unlike all his other sexual encounters, their shared kiss made that position intimate and utterly special.

“Look,” he whispered in her ear as he pulled back. With hazy eyes, Belle turned her head and froze when she saw herself in the mirror. “Look at us, Diana, and see how right it is.”

Gold groaned when their eyes locked in the mirror, overwhelmed at the beautiful vision of their love. Just for a moment, they were a piece of artwork hanging over a fireplace. It was short-lived when he dared to move. When he slid out and then forcefully slammed his hips into her soft rear, Belle’s eyes snapped closed and her jaw went slack. He watched her in the mirror, adoring all the beautiful facial expression she made as she climbed that towering summit towards pleasure.

“Open your eyes,” he begged as he began to rock his hips at a steady pace, not enough to hurt her, but enough that she made a sweet noise with each thrust. “Watch your husband fuck you,” he commanded.

Belle mewed, tormented by his words, but obeyed. Just for a moment, he followed his own orders and stole a glance at himself. His face looked years younger, his eyes were softened, his skin was glowing with exultation, and the evidence of his life of hardships vanished from his features. For the first time in his existence, he looked like the forgotten boy he left behind in Scotland.

It was enchanting how he slipped in and out of her, rough and hard, yet full of love and kindness. He never believed those two things would go perfectly together, but he never had someone to find it with.

“Ugh.” Belle moaned as she joyously received another thrust of his cock. He stared into her eyes, ensnaring her body and soul to his will. “It feels like you’re splitting me in two. It feels so _good_.”

This was his fantasy come to life. He finally completed that promise to that pathetic piece of flesh that called himself her father. He fucked her tight, wet quim with his hard cock and she loved every minute of it.

“Let me come inside you.” His resolve was weakening as she clenched her muscles around him. “Honor me, Diana,” he pleaded, after seeing nothing but a goddess in the mirror.

And it was an honor when he spilled his seed inside of her, filling her to the brim with his come. As he rocked with every wave of his pleasure, Belle came hard. She screamed as her muscles clenched around him, and he preened with pride as she trembled in the throes of her orgasm.

“Stay inside of me,” Belle pleaded as savored their spent pleasure. “Please.”

He obeyed her, remaining still so his softening cock wouldn’t slip from inside of her. She hummed with contentment, enjoying the closeness of him as her senses returned.

When it was impossible to keep his flaccid cock inside of her, he collapsed backwards into the chair. He didn’t mean to abandon her like that, with her skirts pulled over her ass like a harlot, as she dripped with his semen. And he didn’t mean to look so improper, with his shirt twisted, his flaccid cock hanging out of his fly, and a halo of wetness around his groin. 

After tucking himself back into his trousers, he tried to slide his leg out straight. With a grunt, Gold bent over and forced the metal joints to unlock. In the corner of his eye, he saw Belle push her skirts over her bottom and rise from the table. As he leaned back into the chair, he admired how beautifully disheveled she looked.

“Will you let me help you?” She asked, her eyes hopeful as she held out her hands to take.

Gold swallowed his pride and pushed himself out of the chair with a grunt. She caught him before he fell over, proving her surprising strength. While she was strong, she wasn’t strong enough to carry him to bedroom and dragged him towards the fainting couch instead. As he collapsed on the couch, Gold pulled her down with him.

She let out a giggle when she fell beside him on the couch, allowing his arms to capture her in a loving embrace. Belle curled up on the narrow couch, her body flush against his body, and fell into a contented silence.

The dressing bell chimed from the hallway and snapped them out of their blissful daze.

Belle groaned, holding her hands over her face. “I almost forgot we’re on a ship!”

“It’s rather hard to forget,” he said, feeling the sway of the ship. “Can’t you feel it rocking?”

“Honestly, I can’t feel anything but how wet my drawers are,” she said, slightly annoyed.

Gold erupted into a fit of laughter.

“It’s not funny,” Belle insisted, which made him laugh even harder. “It’s quite embarrassing, actually.”

“Don’t be,” he told her, hugging her tightly against him. “Are you that desperate to show off to that odious woman that you’ll abandon your husband’s embrace?”

“You mean Regina?” Belle lifted her head off the cushion and narrowed her eyes in confusion. When he nodded, she began to laugh. “Regina’s my friend.”

“Friend?” He frowned. “She didn’t seem that friendly.”

“You wouldn’t if you never went to Comstock,” she sardonically replied. “It’s true that we’re competitive with each other, but when my mother died, Regina was the only one to come to my mother’s funeral. She’s prickly, but she’s harmless.” 

Gold raised his arm and propped it behind his head. “Is this the girl that you snuck out to go dancing with?”

“Maybe.” Belle playfully shrugged. Without warning, her eyes went wide before she hid her face in her hands with a frustrated huff. His smile immediately vanished when he spotted her visible distress.

“What?” He insisted, growing scared that something was wrong. 

Belle lifted her head from her hands and shook her head in disbelief. “When we…I didn’t…I forgot…we…uh…”

Gold listened intently, trying to piece together her string of bumbling words. Belle poked him hard on his shoulder, a punishment for being utterly oblivious to her panic.

“We agreed we were going to wait!” Belle hotly protested.

“Oh.” Gold’s eyes opened wide when he realized she meant she’d forgotten to insert her pessary. Sadly, he had a feeling that was going to be the least used rubber cap at seas.

Truthfully, he wasn’t getting younger despite how virile he felt around her. He thought how wonderful it would be to have his wife swollen with child, so quickly after their wedding. It was a prideful thought, but he was a man in love.

“It wouldn’t be that horrible if you came back from Scotland pregnant, would it?” Gold wondered.

“I thought you wanted to wait?” Belle inquired, growing confused. 

“What I want is a handful of bonny lads and lasses,” he confessed without shame. 

Belle drew back, shocked. “With me?”

“Who else?” Gold inquired with humor. “But if you want to wait, then we’ll wait.”

With a sigh, Belle bent forward to place her cheek upon his lovesick heart. He hoped that she could hear it strongly beat for her. He raked his fingers through her hair, uncaring if he ruined Ruby’s skillful work. It was unlikely they’d leave the room at all, just as he suspected that morning.

“Can we be happy?” Belle asked, her voice small and sad.

Gold wrapped his arms around her, nearly crushing her to his scarred chest. “We fought for our love and we have won.”

“With blood and deceit,” Belle coldly replied.

“That is who we are,” he said, confident they walked the same path. “But it’s a secret we can leave behind in this vast ocean.” 

Belle lifted her head, her eyes hopeful. “Is that possible?”

“I’ve been so many people,” he recalled, digging his hand between them to snatch the pocket watch affixed to his vest. Belle gasped when he broke the chain, but he didn’t care, it was just a chunk of gold. 

He held the round mechanism in his hands, showing her all the scrapes and dents its suffered through the years.

“This is the only thing I have left of my father,” Gold told her, clicking it open to display the glass face. It had a spider web crack in the bottom right, made when he dropped it as a boy. His father knocked two of his teeth out for that mishap. “He bought it with the money he earned for making my mother walk the streets. We were starving, but he bought a bloody watch.”

“Why do you have it?” Belle asked, staring at the piece of gold metal as if it was cursed.

“I always said I carried it around to remind myself never to be like my father.” Gold almost laughed at his ridiculous lie. “Now I know that I keep it to remind myself of who I used to be.”

Belle reached out, soothing his forehead with a stroke of her soft fingers. “Andrew.”

Gold shut it, grasping it tightly in his hands. “Could you love a weakling? A boy who was powerless to protect his own mother from the poorhouse? A feeble creature that couldn’t earn a piece of crust, let alone support a wife that deserves riches and beauty?" 

Belle clasped her hand over his. “I told you, you could be anyone you wanted to be with me. Hearts don’t need names.”

His wife was young, but wise. 

Withdrawing from his embrace, Belle remained silent as she walked over to the table and picked up the vial of strychnine. It was the only evidence left that linked her to Zelena’s murder. He realized that both of them held the keys to their unspeakable past.

“We can be ourselves now,” Belle said, clutching the vial close to her heart. “Forget about our old lives and begin anew.”

Gold pushed himself from the couch, sitting up as he held the watch in his clammy hand. As much as he wanted to extract the evil from his heart, he knew it was a promise he couldn’t keep. It was there, a shadow that he could never unpin from his shoulder. Just like she'd always live with the weight of her crimes, made in the name of love.

“I’ll always do what I must to protect our family,” Gold told her, almost unapologetic.

“I know,” Belle softly said, accepting his undoubting truth. “But you can do that as Andrew.”

Gold winced as he felt his heart shatter in a million pieces. Besides his mother, Belle was the only person on this earth that had faith in that poor, pathetic boy. 

“You’re my husband, Andrew,” Belle insisted, smiling at him as if they were meeting again after a long parting. Her loving stare felt like a slab of granite crushing his ribs. He looked away, staring at the pattern in the carpet, unable to bear the crushing pain of her endless devotion. 

“Yes, you are,” she contended, crossing the room to return to his side. “I’ve always seen you there, wishing for someone to love you again. Let me love you, Andrew.”

With a soft touch, Belle placed her fingers under his chin and encouraged him to turn his head to face her. Gold let out a sob when he saw that her eyes were overflowing with love—love only for Andrew. Without blinking, tears began to steam down his cheeks.

“Andrew,” Belle whispered, leaning down to kiss the single tear from his sorrow-ridden face. With each kiss, she picked up the pieces of his shattered heart and mended it whole. “Andrew, Andrew, Andrew,” she chanted like a holy prayer.

When there was no more kisses to drink with her adoring lips, Gold opened his hand and could barely stand the sight of the scrap of gold. It was heavy with memories of all the men he used to be. He wanted throw it across the room, as if the watch was a burning coal scorching his palm. 

“Come with me,” Belle said as she bent down and helped him to stand.

This time, there was no shame or discomfort. He wrapped his arm around his strong willed wife and used her as he limped to their private promenade deck. As he looked over the railing, there was only the sight of rolling ocean for miles. The light of full moon bathed the rippling waves in a ghostly light and the stars became their earthly chandeliers. It had been so long since he stared up into a sky, unpolluted by the city’s lights, and seen the glittering heavens above.

Belle lifted her hand and showed him the vial of poison. While he would never blamed her for what she did, he wouldn’t allow his beautiful wife to dirty her hands again. 

“You shall come to me for now on,” he ordered, making it clear that she was no longer a murderess. “I promise I'll always take care of you, just like you always take care of me.”

Silently obeying her husband, Belle threw the bottle of poison overboard. She rested her empty hand against his abdomen and nestled her face against his chest. Gold opened his hand, clicking the watch open one last time to check the time. A quarter to eight, it read.

“I love you, Andrew,” Belle told him with all the love she could muster. “I’ll love you no matter what path you choose.”

There was no need for hemlock, heroin, and poison, not when they finally had their happily ever after. Without hesitation, he chose to end the life of Mr. Gold and snapped the watch closed. He gathered the chain in his palm before hurling it into the seemingly endless ocean. The Atlantic became the graveyard where he laid to rest the man he used to be.

At a quarter to eight, Andrew Gold was born.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're probably wondering why I decided to keep him as Andrew Gold, versus Andrew Lister. Well, that's because he can never fully go back to being Andrew Lister, nor can he shake off the demon that's Mr. Gold. Instead, he allows the two identities to exist together.
> 
> So, I hope you enjoyed it! Thank you guys so much for all the comments, kudos, prompts, and questions I've received for my twisted rumbelle tale. Ugh, you're the best!
> 
> If you need more, I wrote two short stories about David, [one when he meets Mary,](http://morganfir.tumblr.com/post/150788496513/riverside-park-david-meets-mary-margaret-for-the) and another when he meets [Gold for the first time](http://morganfir.tumblr.com/post/151054542688/prompt-could-we-please-see-the-moment-riverside).
> 
> Next week I'm going to start uploading new chapters to [The Cloistered Heart](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7167941/chapters/16271663). It's a Enchanted Forest AU with heavy amounts of angst, a dollop of kick-ass females, a dash of complex characters, and spoonful of medieval history, then cooked at a slow burn. It started as a freeform story, but turned into a fantasy tale of its own.
> 
> find me at <http://morganfir.tumblr.com/>


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